False Eyelash

I am wearing armour.

My cheekbones shine,

my eyeliner is a sharp as it comes.

I am wearing armour.

I’m ready to fight the world,

I curled my eyelashes at least 5 times

today.

They’re as stiff as clay.

I am wearing make up so ‘fleeky’ the girls

call me a hoe,

the boys think I’m some kind of show,

there for entertainment.

I’m so confident that I can face my enemies,

I feel happy,

I’m so lucky to feel this good.

I drink so much vodka that I feel bitter,

rotten inside.

Hiding the fact I threw up my regrets,

I meet you.

You’re so handsome, smart…

you want to be Prime Minister one day.

I say politicians always lie,

and you do that smile that melts hearts.

We don’t want to part,

so we go the same way.

1 hour later,

I find myself staring at a ghost in the mirror,

a person I don’t recognise.

I’m afraid to wipe away my armour,

I don’t want you to see the real me.

See, you fell in love with the face,

the image.

My feet take steps towards the door,

hands refusing to wipe away the

parts of me that still exist.

There’s just a twist in this story of fate.

It is late when I enter the bedroom,

I ask to turn off the lights,

I don’t show my face.

As you place your hand on my cheek,

I slide my way down your body.

You cannot touch there,

so I distract you with the swishing of my hair.

In the morning,

I leave the smell of my perfume and

mascara stains,

you find a stray false eyelash in

the sink,

you don’t think anything of it.

You cannot see me as I am,

my armour is the only protection I have.

The next night,

I repeat the same mistakes,

I take someone I never see again,

they don’t complain.

And in their bathroom,

they find a stray false eyelash…

again, and again.

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