A Flower Disguised

October 26, 2010
The familiar *pop* of the mascara emerging from the tube.
I widen my bleary eyes and push my scarcely existent eyelashes upwards.
With great hesitation I look in the mirror and
watch my dark, dull eyes as they stare back into my dark, dull eyes.
I dip my fingers into the creamy depths of oily foundation
and smear it over the many blemishes that make up my face.
I apply concealer to the dark circles under my eyes;
the ones that are there because I got just four hours sleep last night.
I was too busy silently sobbing
to manage a minute more.
Eyeliner is next, which is ok because I have a steady hand. It’s all the practice I get.
I try to make myself look cat-eyed,
a look that’s so pretty but I can’t because I’m just not attractive enough.
Everyone knows I’m not but I try not to care because
the boys in my class don’t care.
Trembling, I walk out of the bathroom. It feels like I’m going to war.
As I walk through the school gates
every atom of confidence that I’ve plastered on my face
evaporates, because those girls in my year stare and snigger and say
“Look at that girl! She’s so ugly!” and I feel awful.
All the makeup I’ve used feels like a stupid waste of money.
Though not as stupid as I am.
And all the time I’ve spent caking it on feels utterly pointless.
Though not as pointless as I am.
And my stomach sinks, and I shrink
because no matter how hard I try, I can never be beautiful.
But I still feel that tiny rush of hope every time the mascara goes *pop* out the tube.
And I still spend away the time putting it on when I should be
eating breakfast.
And I still feel terrible, each and every day
as I’m pushed and shoved around the school field
by those girls in my year who stare and snigger and say
“Look at that girl! She’s so ugly!”

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