Mauve

I cake on charcoal eyeliner and black-to-gray eyeshadow. My mascara-laced lashes are weighted down with sticky midnight black puree that supposedly accentuates my beauty in some way. I know I do not look good; I look normal. I blend in, almost as well as my charcoal eyeliner blends in, fading into my skin flawlessly.

I found my mother's old lipstick yesterday – it's called “mauve” but it looks more like the world's loveliest combination of dust and blood. I would never put that on my face; I'm above that. I'm above mauve.

One day I'm not going to wear any makeup. After all, this isn't right for me; it even feels wrong. I'm not the type to cake on eyeliner and mascara and straighten my hair until it steams. This is a phase – just a phase. I wasn't born this way. I wasn't raised this way.

This will pass.

I look toward the mirror. Something is off. My eyes are finished beautifully; they look dark, mysterious, and five times larger than they are in actuality. My foundation is smooth, my blush is understated yet visible, and my hair is neat as a pin. I squint, now, and finally I see it: my lips are bare. Naked. It feels wrong.

I pull my mother's lipstick out of the makeup drawer where I carefully set it this time yesterday morning, and I slip it open, eliminating from my concern the classic old makeup odor that emanates from its core. I smooch my lips and smooth it on, realizing that I have confirmed my submission to the enemy. I'm lost; I'm hopeless. Conformity has sucked me into its powerful world, and I have no way to escape its rule.

I've sunken to the level of mauve.