At What Cost?

They told me life was stitched from handbags and Botox,

measured by car mileage and diamond weights,

judged by how many dresses you could wear

before the sun set behind your curated grin.

They said happiness came in gold chains,

in electric horses and tightened waists,

in faces frozen stiff enough to withstand

the hurricane of time —

as if a forehead was meant to be marble.

They flaunted their hours like trophies,

corseting their hunger into steel ribs,

parading hourglass bodies carved

by scalpels and deadened nerve endings,

while inside, the soul hung slack,

a coat forgotten on a wire hanger.

Tell me —

is the song of the birds worth less

than the hum of your filtered selfies?

Do you greet the morning with your own breath,

or with a receipt for a borrowed smile?

Is kindness lighter than gold around your neck?

Is compassion too plain to post?

You dance like a rockstar in pixels,

but does your heart know the rhythm when the screen goes black?

So tell me —

how much did you pay for the feeling you dare to call happiness?