Toast To 36-24-36

Fat is beautiful, thin is beautiful too. Black is beautiful, so is white. Isn't beauty subjective? Aren't we crystallizing 'arbitrary constructs' way too much? And ending up victimizing that stranger, that friend, our very own selves? The poem examines this. Every morning when the mirror greets her She would scorn and yell things bitter "Thick fat of skin More like trash-bin Speckled like a corpse rotten Duh, or a desert of fossil forgotten" Until one day when she would hashafashasha away her noodles Her eyes fall on a pamphlet colored in blue, beneath her plate of snickerdoodles The words written come sailing through the air As if she has found kryptonite to her everyday nightmare "Plastic surgery" it reads in bold "Why miss on your 'perfect' 36-24-36, get rid of the ugly folds" Satire smirks Irony laughs And she sneaks to the address To the house of illusions To the purgatory of euthanasia Euthanasia of innocent hearts That could fit beauty only in the diameters of 36-24-36 Three days in future returns she Floating in an island of glee Amidst the ocean of audience - In real and virtual world That would now "wohoo!" and "ahoy!" To her perfect body of contours and curves Fabricated with intricacy- "A work of art!" Satire smirks Irony laughs And she cheers And waves to them all! This newly found stardom is beautiful indeed As she would prance to the symphony of her own queendom feed One fine day In sunny May She undoes her heels To keep them in the shelf, kneels When BAM! Her nerves jam Blood oozes Pain booms Perplexed and in pain, she shouts And calls out. Thirty - eight months, her breaths, she hauls In excruciating pain and hopeless bawls The pockets of blood and fluids wouldn't cease to ooze out "Dang! I would have been the happiest with my protruding snout." The plastics couldn't be undone So she wriggles in the lanes of Manhattan Then arrive the cruel blossoms of March When her body couldn't anymore bear the brooding discharge "Euthanasia", she hears the whisper beneath their bony nose And mumbling lips of melancholy Yet, she seconds the decision, to free herself from the long standing agony The room is cold and blue Final words she murmurs, still ballyhoo- "The spring has sprung The songs have been sung ... Only if I had recognized that I was since forever beautiful and young.”