Contrived

I’m a contrived beauty.
If I were grim faced Hester Prynn
Framed in a solemn, white hat and loose, billowy drapes
Of religious chastity
I would fade into a sea of pale, droning faces
Yearning, like all of them, for the slightest indication
I was something singular.
But that’s not me.
I find the means from bottles
And jars, pallets, sprays, boots,
Liquid fantasy
And all the singularity I receive ordinarily  
Is wholly contrived.