An hour long process. A sink looking like a mosh pit; MAC and Loreal… even some Maybeline. Maybe she’s just born with… no I’m not. What am I then? I’m funny, I’m smart, I’m kind, but YOU probably know me as that girl on Instagram, “Oh she’s so… pretty. Her eyebrows are on “fleek”” But what do you know about ME? That I’m always late for school just to make sure you don’t see the bags under my eyes, my tired skin, my tear-stained cheeks. You know that I don’t laugh much anymore because MAC’s lipstick cracks easily, or at least that’s my excuse. Does someone cry so much that ALL their makeup needs to be waterproof? I mean, it all looks the same, you would never know. Underneath this mask, this persona of blended and concealed perfection is a person just like anyone else. Struggling to stay just afloat like everyone else. Feeling lonely and hurt inside, just like everyone else… I would be crying by now but, you know, my foundation… There’s a stereotype that goes along with this thing, this make up thing. Fashion too. You know I like Star Wars, and Lord of the Rings, and reading. I really like reading. But what do I know about that? I like to talk about religion and science and gay marriage but why listen to me? I’m just cute, remember. And why the American jail system should be immediately restructured sure doesn’t get you likes on Insta. So I don’t say anything. I just sit there and fix my makeup. Fix my makeup. Fix my mask. Fix. My. Mask. I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I mean, who can look sad with purple lips? 


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