To paint thine own self

With spots on all the wrong places and shadows lurking in the corners of the eyes,
not all of us wake up with a #Nofilter face in the morning.
With kind suggestions and constant reminders by the society, we splash water on us,
telling ourselves that we are nothing but a combination of carbon and water.

It shouldn’t take a poem for you to be a little less censorious towards women in makeup.
We  have heard it all before, to love who you are, and the ‘Girl, there ain’t no hiding what you’re made up of’,
But make up, for spelling out loud, is neither our salvation nor a means to survival.

make up, for me, is art, is poetry, is a painting that I bless myself with every time I look in the mirror.
I hold a brush like a painter’s weapon and pour the exact shade of sunsets that one could see from a hilltop, into my cheekbones.
With freckles already on the tip of my nose, like constellations in the starry-night sky, I fill moonlight and dusk around my eyes.

I put a killer winged eyeliner and a darker shade of lipstick when I dream of flying,
slightly bent  eyelashes and rose petal  kisses on the first-base romances,
I paint myself with colours I think they must lack in their paradise.
I sprinkle rose water on my face, wear a natural bliss and artificial raspberries when I tell my best friends that I love them,
And on days, when I couldn’t draw a straight line with trembling fingers and everything hunted in the world, I curl my hair, to tell myself that it’s going to be okay.

It is not a mask that I hide behind, but a version of me that will always be valid.
It’s not for someone else, but myself, an expression that sews fairytales with fabric,
and dyed the chunks of the hair blue.
It is a work of fiction, that reminds of the nebula of the milky way galaxies, outer space, and sometimes, the ocean.

make up, for the likes of me, is the only way to remind me that I am not just carbon and water,
but stardust and the sea. It is one of those things that struck me with an epiphany, that I myself am the prettiest poem on my bookshelf.
Makeup does not make me superficial or frivolous, it does not make my ideas inane,
Makeup does not mean that I am the brainwashed victim of the racist and patriarchal society,
It doesn’t show any sign that I advocate absurd ideas of beauty standards spawn by the world that is trying to kill us,
It doesn’t mean that I can’t see beyond the picture and that my mind doesn’t exist.
It’s an expression, a story, fashion.

You can’t know anything about me from something  as evanescent as makeup, it washes away in the rain, unlike human sins,
So it would be alright, better even, if you keep your judgement to yourself.images (1)


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