there's a pimple on my left cheekbone and one of my brows is plucked a little thinner than the other. the only makeup on my face is the black on my eyelashes my eyes burst green. my mouth (my rosebud mouth, my mother smiles) like a slightly opened slightly troubled bow. my brow is furrowed my eyes are searching one of my ring-and-bracelet hands holds back my hair (short) and my elbow rests. i look at myself, head-tilting, quick-sketching the curves of my features in a single line of ultra-fine Sharpie.
what you see is what you get.
my eyes frown into themselves through the mirror. i am long i am lanky i am lovely. i am a little lost and very found i am angsty i am achey i am laughing i am me - if you only look at yourself for a second you tend to miss how beautiful you are. it isn't my vanity. it's the universal, and most unbelieved truth.
i brush back my hair and i puff my cheeks out. i sigh, and i look at myself in the cheap mirrors set out on the art-room tables. "not bad," i say to the single line of ultra-fine Sharpie-version of my face. and it isn't. even though i left out the pimple.