Concealer and Chain Mail.

Everyone wears an armour that no one seems to notice.

Whenever I'm feeling sad or angry, or in a downright foul mood, I put on my make-up.

I have a temper on a trip switch and a fire in my belly, but society apparently doesn't value raw passion. So sometimes I have to cover it up. Cover up every spark, before it gets snuffed out. Cover up every flare of imagination before it get's drowned. Cover. It. Up.

So sit down at my desk.

And do my make-up.

Foundation first. The silky goop runs smooth over my spot prone skin, smoothing over every bump, every lump.

Every imperfection.

I must be appear to be flawless. in order to keep my cool. 

Concealer next. The circles under my eyes are just a shade too dark, so to correct the purple bags, creamy concealer is slapped on, layer after layer, until there is no evidence of sleepless night and caffeine fuelled mornings. The sticky liquid is used all over my face, painting up the layers of my armour. Most knights on their way into battle choose chain mail. I choose colour corrector. 

With the fluffiest brush imaginable, I set the foundations with scoops and scoops of powder, hardening my armour until it sets into place. I am now a blank canvas. 

I am no artist, but now I can paint.

People should have dimensions. Even if they're fake. The art of contour is something that has somewhat eluded me, but nevertheless, I brush and blend until my cheekbones are carved and my temples exposed. My features accentuated, but somewhat fake none the less. How apt.

To even out the colourlessness of my face, the faintest hint of blush is used. Better to appear harmless. It makes the bite all the worse. 

Pleasantries over with. Now I'm not playing nice. 

Crispy winged eyeliner is delicately drawn on to my eyelids, the shadow shimmering in the light. It's drawn on thick and fierce, as sharp as my tongue and as black as my heart, as long and as fine as the knife you'd use to kill a man. 

Now for the coup de grace.

Blood red lips, drawn on and painted. The only spot of colour on my seemingly monochrome face. A pop of colour in a black and white world. 

This is my armour. This is what protects me. The mask that everyone recognises, the face that can be washed away.

Everyone has a signature that they can't put down on paper. This is mine.

Author's Note

This is not my best piece. Just needed to vent a bit. Reviews always welcome!

Reviews

[Davidgeo]

That's a pretty good analogy. Women have a physical representation of a universal concept that men lack for the most part (mask; front stage/back stage persona and the like), it may even be one of the defining factors behind why the genders think so socially different.

Men may be less aware of how constructed our outward person truly is.

I never really thought of it like that before... that's good work you have here.

You should re write this though, the concepts are perfect but I bet you could strip it down more. Make it read more efficiently with a little extra word economy.

[RibhyMay]

Your comments mean a lot, thank you! I agree, I do think that the social divide may be because of this. Then again, there's nothing wrong with a cheeky bit of guy-liner or man-scara ;)

[??????]

I always tell ladies they don't need that stuff that beauty is skin deep, but yes we all mask ourselves in some way lol even men. I wont tell mine ha ha:)

[Jacob Clifford]

Well. I'm no expert when it comes to make-up. I can appreciate the symbolism it has for you. I do kind of wish make-up didn't exist and people allowed themselves to go through life as they are, but I understand the feeling of desiring to hide.

[RibhyMay]

Thank you for your review! For me, makeup not only makes me feel as though I can conquer the world (yes, literally) but sometimes it keeps the real me inside for a while. Complex situation for complex minds.