To the Girl Who Looks Into Me Every Morning ...

You call it make up.
I call it a mask.

You apply that powder
to cover the sourness
that seeps out of your mind
and drips down yourface.

The hurt in your eyes
is coated
with black mascara
and iscontradicted by white eye shadow.

Your flushed, pale cheeks
have turneda shade of rosy red,
and this time it's not because
you snuck into
yourmother's make-up case.

The lips you kiss him with
but use to flirt withother boys
have become a sparkled mess of pink.

And even after thisillusion is over,
you still look at me as if you want to hurt me,
smash meinto pieces,
to make a mess of glass on the floor,
and use that glass tocut yourself.

Instead,
you just stand there,
staring atme,
letting your mascara run,
repeating to yourself,
"I will not eat today."