Plastic people all trying to be the same thing. The same idol
instead of accepting who they are and finding their own strengths. They focus outward and
It's so heavy, the air is sticky with it, their coveting.
Young girls walk in, legs still fresh with new skin. Skirts too short. Makeup too heavy.
Everyone looks. Everyone covets.
Men, they gape, and fantasize, and undress them in their heads. These fragile girls, who don't yet know there's a surface beneath the shell,
a trickle. Depth, it could become, if they cultivate the spring. Dew would turn into an ocean.
But they rejoice in their young skin and celebrate their fresh lives in a world where they're only valued for the surface.
Because they, too, covet.