Every night, I wash my face off.
First comes the skin,
then the eyelashes, the lips;
the colours of drama,
life, love, and beauty,
all swirl down the drain.

Blemish by blemish,
the monster reappears,
the one everyone tries to hide,
the one that's blotched,
marred, reddened, ugly;
Imperfect.

And I think of Mulan,
the princess that wasn't,
and how she couldn't recognise her face
when it was primped and painted,
and how I can't recognise mine
when it's not.

I wonder which of us is luckier.

Every night, I wash my face off,
and I wonder if one day
there will be nothing under it.