MAKE-UP IN THE MAKING
- 3 days ago
- 1 min read
By Sonia M.
Your silence now reigns—raw and painful. Almost like the rubble after an earthquake:
land littered with broken homes and still corpses. Yet, yours is so much worse: a sign of neither loss or acceptance.
Disappointment sews your lips into that tight pursed line.
There will be no grave mourning, because only loved ones plan funerals, and you have chosen bitter resignation—the 20th century widow that raves of his wife’s fallibility, flipping all her portraits as she goes mad in asylum.
Transformed from the cradled cub you secured to the coquette D-cup you stone.
You despise who you see—who you cannot see under caked up filth. You despise the pink mouth and purple eyeshadow for the sins they foretell. You despise me before you understand me because you realize who I am not.
I scream like the harlot you’ve used. I cry like the crocodile you’ve divorced. I disrespect like the brat you’ve always feared.
I fruited a rotten apple—sullied and selfish—deserving of punishment because I have stolen your daughter, subsumed a piece of her.
Innocent and unknowing of what she was destroying, she invited me in—just as you know she will invite everyone else between those fleshy thighs.
You see it in the way she holds herself, in that smear of mascara. Even as she prepares for her first day of eighth grade, now cleansed in hot tears, you know it.
She’ll turn out to be another filthy whore.
So you treat her like one, and throw her away.