Poems

Garden

"Dad always says, 'You're pretty without makeup,'" he repeats,
I smile and nod, but the truth is a bit bittersweet.
I don't wear makeup just to feel pretty, that's kind of true,
It's like a shield against feeling ugly, it's just what I do.

Mascara goes on to stop tears from falling,
Eyes, the windows, hiding a deeper calling.
Highlighter in the corners, where lids meet to blink,
A distraction from the intensity my eyes might bring.

When the sun rises, a touch on the tip of my nose,
Highlighter's disguise, a secret no one knows.
No childhood pink left, grown up too fast,
Ugliness inside, not part of puberty's forecast.

Makeup brushes used like paint on a canvas,
Creating a version of me, a bit more advantageous.
To match compliments on my deep mind's grace,
Yet, it comes with a grief, a deeper embrace.

My voice, too loud, too much, too rough,
A gift, they say, but I find it tough.
So, Chapstick to soften, make my mouth mild,
Lip gloss to distract, to shock, like a child.

Separation from my skin, a daily quest,
A barrier from the mess, a personal request.
Dad says flowers grow within me, he believes,
Yet, petals sprout from pores, not all deceives.

They don't see the dirt within, the hidden stain,
Makeup applied, a routine to maintain.
To feel clean, even when inside feels unsteady,
Maybe then, I'll feel pretty enough for flowers, ready.

Dad's words about a garden in my stomach persist,
Unlike the devil of a mother, a different twist.
Layers of makeup, a daily routine so keen,
A complex dance between what's seen and what's been.