I love makeup.
My boyfriend can attest to that
says my collection rivals entire department stores.
Not that he minds.
He’s always preferred me with it,
preferred I cover up the bruises
littering my face like cigarette burns
on an old couch.
Preferred I cover up my black eye,
turn it into something smoky,
“Something seductive,” he says,
while his fists do the blending.

I’ve become his blank canvas,
his masterpiece in shades of purple and blue,
yellow blooming like a sick sunset.
Each night, a new stroke of his brush,
a cut across the corner of my mouth,
a handprint on my neck.

“Art takes time,” he says,
as if patience could ever fix this.
As if I am a sculpture
that will only ever look good
when it’s been broken.

In the mornings, I paint over his work
a thick layer of foundation,
a mask of normalcy.
My concealer hides the shadows
his knuckles leave behind.
I draw on new brows
to replace the ones that furrow in fear.

Lipstick.
A color that says “I’m fine”
when I’m anything but.
I’ve learned how to make my cheeks glow,
even when they sting.
I’ve learned to perfect my smile,
even when my lips split under the pressure.

This is my routine.
Brush. Blend. Lie. Repeat.
Not for myself,
but for the world,
to make sure they don’t see
what lies beneath the surface.

Because what could they even do?
I’ve heard their whispers,
felt their stares like daggers,
sharp enough to cut,
but not sharp enough to save me.

And he knows this.
Knows no one will ask.
Knows makeup is my armor,
but it’s his too.
Knows that under every shimmer of highlight,
there’s a bruise,
and under every bruise,
there’s silence.

So I keep painting.
Layer after layer,
until I forget
what my face looks like underneath.