Contestant No. 7,394

The screen is both my mirror and my judge.

It shows my face then shows me how to fix

the bluntness of my jaw, the too-soft edge

where cheek meets air, imperfectly designed.

I scroll and see the gallery of slim,

the flawless ones who post at golden hour.

I pinch the skin below my chin and think:

This is a competition I enrolled in

without consent.

Every like, a point.

Every comment, a score from faceless judges

in a booth that never closes.

I polish myself into a submission

filtered light, posed just right

but in the blue glow of 2 AM,

I feel like a rough draft in a world

of final editions.

They hand out crowns of glass

for beauty that resets at dawn.

I hold mine carefully, knowing

it could shatter if I frown,

if I wake up and look

too much like my own un-posed self

the one not meant for panels,

just for living.