Standing in front of the dresser mirror,
Pulling memories out of a vessel
Maybe an urn with powdery, chalky, dusty ash;
Maybe an old photo stuck in the corner, to look at when you want
to feel like a tragic… hero?
Or someone who was wronged by life.
Maybe a shared memory of how they “always were” that you’ll never see again.
Applying that recollection to your face like a creamy war paint –
Call it vengeful skin care.
Of course it was an affront that the world took something you loved away
And now you owe it your ire:
The caked up makeup solidifies like clay in the fire of your heart,
But only after it seeps into your pores.
Loss is the ultimate distance, and it makes the hard grow fonder.
Rugged is the new uniform when the tears you didn’t realize you were shedding dry up,
But like with every serum and cream,
Each drop is costly, and it’s very easy to feel ugly when you don’t have them…
So you apply it sparingly, because the price of loss is not something you’re willing
to fork over again,
Without a coupon…
So you light your wick at both ends, but just enough to retain the essence of your loved ones,
Of the lessons they taught, tragedies they endured.
As the wax melts and your makeup runs, you feel you lose a part of who they were,
Of who you are
Then one day your index and middle finger touch plastic and there is nothing left to recall:
A face blurry;
A memory forgotten.
And when you look in the mirror you feel weak and defeated and lost and homesick;
And you see tears and wrinkles and cracks and dark circles that have formed.
But hitting the bottom of the porcelain does have one advantage
–At least you know who you are.
