I want men to say they love me only with my makeup on.
What you do,
when you tell me that:
- The reality I have painstakingly self-constructed is fraudulent
- I am hurting myself by attempting to heal myself by attempting to make my world beautiful when the world has tried to make itself ugly, by attempting to make myself beautiful when the world would rather tell me I’m ugly
- I am vain and masturbatory for touching myself with pigments rather than knives
What you do is you say that the sanctuaries I have draped for myself
(the paint that I splattered on the wall by flipping my beating heart inside out,)
the reality that I have chosen to believe in is not real because it has been affirmed and validated only by me, and not
- You, or
- History, or
When I appear to you skin stretched over bones, unplucked and unbothered, that is not for you,
and it is not anymore Real.
My naked face and body are not the only projection of my realness, and they are not the only manifestation of my interiority, and they do not appear for you.
They do not exist so that you can touch the mirage, kiss the mirage, fuck the mirage.
My realness does not only exist through what you can
- validate, or
- imagine, or
When I let down my hair long, it is not an invitation for you to climb the tower, take my body naked and vulnerable and washed of society as your most special conquest. My naked face and body are not the prize at the end of me stripping off the pieces I have placed on me for you. They are not your private show. They are not the inside of me that you feel proud of getting to touch and kiss and fuck. You are not progressive for applauding yourself for asking me to come to you naked and virginal and just as you asked. You are not to receive a medal for liberating me from the armor I have chosen to protect myself with, adorn myself with, applaud myself with, love myself with in this world that would rather have me naked. If you too love me, you will not rather have me naked. And you have made an error by separating my flesh from my colors and sparkles and gems.
For you see, I am the stripped princess, but I am also the tower.
I am not baptized by my makeup remover and made new and clean again just for you.
My sins are not marked by the colors of the paint on my face. If that were the case, you would be the lipsticked whore rubbing mascara from your tired eyes.
For you see, the part of me that is real, that is my soul, is the part which I bring to the surface with my warpaint. I am a masterpiece made by my hands, and when I let you touch me, do not dirty my art with your expectations that it is vapid and false, an attempt to trick you. Do not think dirty of my purity in the self-baring I commit by flipping my heart inside out and painting my face. Do not tie me into your lies by asserting that the only time I am real to you is when I am in your bed in the dark. Do not devalue my humanity by accusing me of only existing when my makeup is off and I’m getting fucked.