She wakes up every morning & looks in the mirror.
Not happy by what she sees,
she covers her face with makeup.
She thinks it makes her look pretty,
but I know she's pretty without it
& I tell her everyday, hoping she believes me.
Sometimes I wish
When I put on my eyeliner
A toddler would say
you look like a raccoon
And when I put on my lipstick
a child might tell me
your lips look like their bleeding
and when I wore my eye shadow
one might tell me
it looked like someone punched me
and I had a bruise
and when I wear powder and foundation
a child would say
you look like plastic
But they never do.
In fact when I wear makeup
came up to me and asked me why I was so pretty
and I thanked her, and said
You are too!
but she walked away
I wanted to tell her that my beauty was artificial
I wanted to tell her that my visage was fake
I wanted to yell to the world that this face
was what society created.
I wanted to blame it on society
which I could, if I wanted
But more I wanted to blame it on myself
I felt so pretty .
But was that what counts?
Is pretty what matters?
what about internal beauty
and intellectual beauty
and natural beauty.
When did powder caked
every friday, i put on makeup
i think it looks good
with eye shadow and just the right amount of nail glitter
i can look like
golden royalty, an azure fairy, a lime snake-kid
every friday, i get a second train of thoughts
i think i look not-as-good
with a thinner face and less prevalent raven-feathers under my eyes
i could look better
why don't i look better
you can feel it;
all thought is makeup
over our emotions.
why does it surprise us that
we can often only see things
as black and white
when good and bad
and happy and sad
and yes life and death
are part of a larger whole
that we can't see in this spectrum.
There is a face in the mirror intently staring back at you
Attempting to recognize the one it views
You are spellbound for one quick moment, in such wonderment
As your eyes meet, and you both realize that it is you
Was it not just yesterday that you were young and naive
Without the wisdom you now hold in your eyes
Now a stranger is boldly looking back with an unflinching gaze
Brazenly daring you to try her on for size
You briefly pause in sheer amazement at these eyes you see
Beaming back at you with a strength unknown
You smile in appreciation and accept yourself as your own
Sit up proudly and put your makeup on
Months ago, I used to apply makeup
for the sole purpose of feeling beautiful,
part of me adored the curve in my eyeliner
or the red in my lipstick; it made me confident,
it made me feel like my smile was brighter,
like any and everything I did, was wonderful.
I can't be sure when the shift happened,
but I find myself less and less capable
of enjoying the morning's application process.
I suppose it's because I no longer wear it for pleasure
but rather, to cover the darkness under my eyelids,
to mask the discoloration in my skin,
and to hide my far too visible exhaustion.
She’s still got her makeup on
from the last night that she lived.
The blue in her crease, the electric shade
fuzzing out, like the awkward ending of a telephone call,
if people even make those
I wonder if they do.
Her hair half curled,
her smile still set,
from flashing itself across the room
again and again
dance after dance.
I wonder if she’ll change her clothes before she goes out again.
New time, new place,
But new faces can mean same clothes, same face,
same made-up face,
to greet one another.
A bit of rearranging is all it will take
for the girl to continue on
without making any change to herself.
She can play the game for another night.
I wonder if she’ll do this again when tonight comes to an end.