Most days I do not
paint it. It remains a
blank canvas, hollow
eyes upon cotton
white, pale lips that
breathe a thousand
sighs, the nose
destroyed by powder
white, flecked with
freckles, I had an
affair with the sun
behind the back of
the moon and look,
another Friday has
arrived too soon.
Tonight I might
paint my death mask:
the blackest eyes,
the reddest lips
savour sweet cider
beg to be kissed
and find myself
again
ignored
again
dismissed
again
alone
hiding in the bathroom
mopping up
the mascara’d mess
that has bled
down shamed cheeks
I tried to look pretty
for you but I know
that I’m just pretty ugly.
Sorry, baby.
The made-up mask
is unconvincing
but what’s beneath
belongs to me
and it will only be
looked at properly
considered finally
in its tragic entirety
in the days after I die
and all you’ll have are hazy
memories of me looking pretty / ugly
(you should’ve looked more closely, baby)
this is so good!
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Thank you so much for reading, Wendi! Hope you are doing well ❤
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Who is the greater looser when someone fails to see through the mask, the paint, the dismissed or the dismisser? The latter must be. They will do it many times and miss so much and so many.
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Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
HLR – Who failed to see?
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