Make Up

I no longer wear make-up.
Nor on my skin,
Cheeks, nose, or chin,
But on my lips.
No, I do not use make up.
—You can touch.
I am as raw and bare as one can witness or dare to stare!
Nor do I mince my words either!
Which, like my poor handwriting,
I no longer feel shame in sharing.
No. No, make-up.
I am uneven,
There's no contouring
In these raw wrinkles
Of mine,
That although, still few,
Are no less real than the more-than-few
Sprinkles
Of the pan-cake-powder
I used to put on my face to hide the age
—or the rage—
Of having to put on my “best face”
For having the pressing need to impress.
Because the foundation
Of my base was shaky,
Making the connection between my mind and heart
Hazy.
—Can you feel it?
No, I no longer wear make-up!
Because I no longer need a mask
To cover that
I. Am. A. Mess.
And because I couldn’t care less
If you come to love me or
like me any
More
Or —any less.
I do it for myself.
To remove me from the shelf,
And break free from my shell.
No. I. do. Not. Do. Make. Up.
I choose to stand here naked
Wearing no make-up.
Not on my face, my soul, nor through my pen
Which I use
—Willingly—
To break free from all the pain.
Ready to share
And accept
All that I am
And remain
Unrefined and unfiltered
Unafraid
To soak up
The rain
Because
I no longer
Carry any shame.
Yet, I am the same,
But
No, I no longer wear make-up;
Because I no longer need to make up
Who I am.