Humans are Emotional

The make-up is drawn on smoothly,
Contours, lines, fresh perfection;
I count down the minutes,
Until a parched eye
Interprets my longing
Slicing through
the foundation,
Cutting a fine track
Through my delicate,
Rose-fettered cheeks.

The make-up is leaking softly,
Ravaging, sopping imperfection;
I count down the seconds,
Until my knees give way
To the blemished portion
Of my heart, an unhealthy
obsession, weeding
Into my everyday life
Through my patient,
Diluted sensibility.

I, like the arachnid in the corner,
Intimidate.
They, as though in the clutch
Of a perverse fear, shimmy aside,
Away;
turning heads, turning
To their smiling companions
With smiling eyes and smiling voices.
Understandable avoidance.

The nail polish is drawn on thick,
Each stroke a precise arch of ink;
Poised, I count the moments,
Until an itchy finger,
Becomes inclined
To scratch aside
the paint.
Wrinkling the surface
Pulling aside the facade,
Expressing my imperfect self:

Through the chips of
My nail-painted finger tips.

The foundation,
obsession, weeding
turning heads, turning
the paint.