The Other Side of Mascarra

 

Coat over coat of make up.

Powder to hide the scars, I got more of them from loved ones then enemies.

Concealer for my dark eyelids, got them from staying up all night with eyes full of tears.  

Eye shadow for complexion since people aren’t smart enough to look into the eyes and see true and honest complexion. 

Rouge for my pale cheeks, give them a little colour my grand mama said if only she knew that it was no good any more.

Lip stick for my dry shredded lips, but if you look closely beneath the colour you can still see the cracks.

Every morning ten holy minutes are devoted to colouring my face, my life.

This morning I couldn’t hold the powder pad,

the concealer got in my eyes and caused me a terrible eye burn,

the eye shadow brush couldn’t stay in my trembling hands,

the rouge was spattered all over my face,

and even my beautiful red lipstick stained my chin and noes.

Was it a sign that my days colouring the pale and dead were gone?

That you can only paint and hide the agony for so long before it surfaces anyhow and I knew that it would, I knew.

I used to decorate all the colours with a smile to hold them together, to hold  all the colours together.

But this morning all I had the will to do was to cry.

Only tears found there way out.

No will left to gather enough energy to force a smile unto my lips. 

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