Why does it feel like an act of courage?
To bear my bare face to the
World?
I stand at the mirror,
Painting a picture:
Pink circles and black lines
Across a blank ivory canvas.
I paint until my reflection is me,
But not.
Me, but
“Pretty.”
For whom?
For what?
Do I seek attention?
“Call me pretty, please.”
I hear the begging, at times:
The human heart,
Desperate for validation.
Or perhaps, sometimes,
I seek concealment?
No, I’m not tired.
No, I’m not sick.
No, I’m not sad.
Sometimes, is it artful expression?
Dramatic curves and curls,
Shadows and highlights,
Glossy, matte, or lustre.
Or maybe it’s self-care:
Time for just me,
To care for myself, my face—
A routine.
How do I know
What underlies my decision
At the start of each day?
What if I don’t know until the day’s end?
When I wipe away the paint,
The layers,
And go inward.
Or what if, sometimes, I can’t ever know?
