She wakes up to a world so familiar yet foreign. Says her prayers, gives her thanks, and whispers, “I love you.” There is no answer. She pulls back the covers then rolls out of bed. Coffee awakens her senses and the thought of going to a job that is only a job dulls her body. She is numb; she has trained herself to be numb. In the mirror she recognizes a familiar face. It is hers. Too young for crows feet and laughing lines but she has been aged, by her life. She is not feeling well. It is ironic after years of a paralyzing numbness she can still feel. It is not joy, it is tears. Today like many days before she lays out her expensive makeup, grabs the paint brush, and she begins to paint. She is an artist in her own right, not by trade, but by birth. As brown streaks stream across her face they hide the blemishes called pain. She picks up a tool titled, “No more sorrow” and she awakens her eyes. This time it is a spring purple that blossoms over her catlike eyelids. She studies her eyes. These eyes tell a story that the world has labeled, “Independence and flippancy.” They are too busy reading the painting they forget the strokes. Yet she smiles as her masks begins to unfold upon her face. Her name is beauty and underneath is the beast.
A beast of tears, of rejection, of pain. Each time this monster rears it’s claws tearing at her soul while she dresses. Today the color is black. Not because she chooses so but it is her job, she wears a uniform in addition to her mask. She slides on the black leggings, the racer back tank, on top the white sheer blouse adorned with a black Polo knit since it is cold. It is not only cold underneath her skin from the abuse, it is cold outside. She is warm, but people can’t see, they can’t see past the painting. They can’t see past the mask. She puts on her socks, they are striped with yellow and white. Then she reaches for her riding boots. They are black too. She is not riding an animal she is riding a beast. The beast of life and she puts on her gear like every other day. Because like today she has always felt better when she dresses putting on a mask that no longer seems like one to her. It is a way of life now and she loves it. They say dress for success and she has taken that to another level, because now when you see her you have to look hard to see the sorrow. She is too pretty to see. She is me, forgotten by you.
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