I am plastic.

Three years ago, I went to Hawaii (a big rock in the middle of the ocean) with a rock on my finger. I came back with sunburn, razor burn, and a too-tight gold band that cut my finger right below the big rock.

Two years ago, my birthday present was breast implants. I guess they look okay. After I healed, we had sex and he said, "Huh, they don't feel so great. Look nice, though."

I'm here, I guess. I don't know if I ever was. I've been wearing lipstick since eleven and stuffing my bra since thirteen. If our existence is predicated on how other people see us, I'm nothing without toilet tissue, Sephora, and multiple lingerie stores.

Can you see me?