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War Paint
January 7, 2016
As I scrub this caked mess from my face
all I can think about is your bright lips,
red without the make-up I adorned
calling out your first compliment to me.
Why was my face not beautiful barren?
Is the real, plain me not enough for you?
Was my soul to cold devoid of war paint
for you to see me as someone who's hot?
I cannot comprehend the reasons why
eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, and blush
were the only ways of waking you up,
of making you see the beauty of me.
I am perfect the way I am without
your affection or approval of me.
© Amy D., Troy, OH
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I enjoy writing in unrhymed sonnet, which is not considered a sonnet, because I think it adds conformity to the work and erases the sing-song quality of rhyming. This piece was inspired by the day I wore make-up to honor a friend's birthday (it was somewhat theatrical) and was complimented for the first time. I thought it was atrocious that someone could be considered his/her most beautiful when the entirety or his/her face was caked with make-up.