#pencilorsword

[pencilorsword]

i feel pretty.

the only time i feel pretty

is after I’ve washed my face.

when the wet on my lashes

is not from tears,

and the red in my cheeks

is not from shame.

the dark in my hair

is not from a box,

and my face is fresh,

shining,

glowing,

new again.

the tasks of each day take away this glow.

my fresh slate is covered with grime,

the tales of each encounter.

the sorrow,

the pain,

the anger,

the joy,

pile up on me.

and i long for that clearness again.

so i cover my face

with powder and ink

to try to keep it fresh,

shining,

glowing,

new.

but as i go about the day

each encounter

starts to slip away.

the sorrow,

the pain,

the anger-

the joy,

no longer piles up on me.

my face is blank

but it is not clear,

not fresh,

not new.

so i take my cloth,

and soak in the water

that will wash away this grime.

this mask,

these tales,

these lies,

that block my skin.

and i 

feel

pretty.