My mama used to hide
Her makeup behind closed doors,
Aged sponges and sticky perfumes tucked into corners of the medicine cabinet,
Making an appearance once a year
Covered in clashing colors and
This is for special occasions deemed important by someone not her.
I ritualize my makeup:
Caressing beauty blenders,
Tingling at eye shadow palettes,
Mornings are focused, still with sweet admiration.
Planes of my face are mine to trace,
Liquid lipsticks dance over my cupid’s bow, piroutte into a smooth matte.
I’ve become my own special occasion.