We never talk about our faces,
and they become our rulers.
The more we ignore them
the more they become our bosses
like snakes that nibble their own tails.
We pay, pray, hate, joy for them.
We choose them like pieces of beaf on the butcher’s shelf.
We draw conclusions from them, like arithmetical quiz.
We search for adjectives and judgments.
But we do not talk about our own faces.
We only take little details and live on such,
who survive on nuts,
day by day, just because coconuts,
papaya and the other foods are on the unknown side of the island.
We despise puffed cheeck, thin lips, little eyes, crooked teeth.
We search for golden skin and arched browns in the catalogue.
I have become my face,
I have become something I never talk about.
I am tired of my face:
she is unable to contain all my me’s.
They are so many,