Why I Don’t Wear Makeup

I don’t wear makeup because I wake up

at 5 AM to kick box, stretch my limbs, work

up a sweat in any way I can before I conquer

the snow banks that conquer the sidewalks

lining my way to work.

There is no room for makeup beneath

my parka hood, my hipster hat, my hand

knitted scarf.

My cold-shed tears would wash away the handy

work of morning mirror time before my destination

came close.

I don’t wear makeup because my eyes itch

and I like to scratch them.

I don’t wear makeup because I do not dare

fall in love with a fake face I no longer

recognize. Mascara would murder

my multitude of freckles found lining

the trail of my pug nosed tip to the ears

plugged with piercings.

My lips stay the color of lips, my lids remain

crayon tan. My lashes are lanky by their own accord,

they need no nurturing.

My Cherokee cheeks cut knives

no brush can build, my eyes gleam

the green no pencil can puncture.

I don’t wear makeup so my skin can sigh,

gulp the air its been strangled by.

I don’t wear makeup because I won’t

let my beauty go down the drain at the end

of every day.

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