mascara

i can’t write the american novel. i can’t make my mother like me, i can’t lift a lot of weight or stand up without needing to steady myself from dizzy anemic vision. but i can do my makeup.

i will wake up with the sun and with the sheets tangled in my legs as i lay out the instruments of beauty: the mascara, the lash curler, the hair roller for my bangs, a tube of highlighter i place on the tip of my nose and the cream blush hailey bieber sells.

what do i know about hailey bieber other than the fact she is peptide obsessed, thin, and is married to justin? absolutely nothing. but i DO know how to revive myself with a brush through the lashes, a dab of color on the cheek, and some shimmer in the crevice of my eye.

it is the daily ritual that leads to the emergence of self, and i grow composed. i’ve done this through tears, on bus rides, in the bedrooms of boys and on swingsets and while sitting on curbs..

i know mascara or i know nothing