Putting On Makeup Feels Like Going to War With My Flaws (And Myself)

I prep,
To be at war
With my flaws.
Mix the two shades
Shades, that claim to ‘fit me’,
And two-thirty-six,
Blend, blend, blend, they say
And I follow,
till the fake tinges
An inherent part of me.

I carefully conceal,
The lines around my lips,
That gathered over years
Of playful smiles,
And endless laughter.
With precision I mask,
bags underneath my eyes
that darkened over days and weeks
of working through nights
And staring intently
at screens black and white.
I cover up,
The scars on my chin,
The marks on my face,
And white-wash
Every story from
Every inch of my skin.
I hide the paleness in my cheeks
And add a tinge of fleur power,
That make me look
Like I’m in love with life
All around twenty-four hours.

I dip myself in gold,
Highlighting the arch of my brows
And the bow of my lips,
Face perfectly contoured,
That pout over-lined;
As the mirror and I
Glare at one another,
I realise,
We’re almost,
Like strangers in the night.

Featured image credit: Unsplash/Ian Dooley