I put on my face this morning;
It came from a can.
I spray it right on my pale, winter skin
Dotted with acne scars and raised bumps of red flesh.
The color comes out,
Like a can of spray paint- I begin to graffiti my face.
The discoloration and bumps begin to dissolve into
the new mask I am painting on.
This is the face that the outside world knows:
the one I am unafraid to show in the light of day.
I remember the first shower I took with my love.
I was so ashamed
as I watched my face mix with the water
And run down the drain.
Once my skin can breathe again though,
I must take a colored pencil to my eyebrows;
they are oddly shaped and the wrong color for my
unnaturally dark hair.
My eyebrows are colored to mold into just the right shape,
just how I was told they’re supposed to be.
But, my eyelashes are too short…
I curl them aggressively, scalding them between
Two pieces of hot metal, forcing each one upright
To give off the façade of being long and thick, like the women on the screen.
They must hate me for this perpetual torture.
I brush dark dust on my eyelids and thickly line my eyes
With a heavy, black pen.
The line has gotten darker and thicker over the years,
now enveloping my entire eye and venturing off
its natural course, testing the boundaries of how far it can go;
Forming a wing on each eye, ready to take flight.
My love once told me:
the eyes are the window to the soul.
You know if someone is crazy
By looking into their eyes.
Maybe I’m trying to hide mine-
Disguise them into something other than myself.
Perhaps the artwork I over-do around my eyes every day
makes me feel protected.
The mask
I paint, color, and spray on
Every morning is the gatekeeper to my soul.
Only when I scrub it off each night can I embrace
The Paleness, Blotchy Acne Scars, Uneven Eyebrows, and Grey Eyes
for what they truly are.
Now, even though I realize how silly and monotonous,
consumer driven and superficial
my morning routine seems,
I can only sit here and think about my
Unpolished Nails, Love Handles, and Faded Hair.
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