I will not fix my makeup.


 

makeup

No. I will not fix my makeup.
You may watch as the mascara flakes from my eyes. How fitting that this snow is black and not white.

No. I will not fix my makeup.
Watch as the precise line of my eyeliner wanders around my eye, leaving its print under the arch of my brows.

Still no. I will not fix my makeup.
Please note also, how the powder is now patchy. Clinging to what was left of my once porcelain face.

But no, I will not fix my makeup.
Even the sturdy foundation of this mask now runs off, fleeing the disaster zone.

But no, I will not fix my makeup.
You might focus on the lipstick stained mouth. Dry, feathered and smudged so effortlessly.

And yet still I will not fix my makeup.

Is it a shame that my minutes of work in the morning is now faded, shifted or gone?
But perhaps it is more shameful that you ask me to fix it.
Fix my makeup. Fix my face.

As if, somehow, the face of a girl who has worked until she is rubbing her tired eyes, ran until she was red and sticky, and concentrated whilst nervously gnawing at her lips or chewing on a pencil.
Somehow this face – this living, working, wondering, worrying face is wrong.
Is incomplete. Is imperfect.

But here are the rules.
This is my face and I shall choose to wear on it what I like, so-be-it perfectly placed and coloured in, or broken and ripped at the seams.

And so I invite you, my onlooker, to see my face as I do. As a canvas I can paint to escape from myself.
As it peels away throughout the day a new identity is revealed. The identity of one who’s flawed outside finally matches her shattered inside.

So tell me now my onlooker; why would I fix my face for you when I’ve put so much effort in to making my appearance true?


 

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