Bedhead
Location
I wake up and face the mirror to see
pillow creases,
zits,
dark circles surrounding my eyes like the craters of the moon.
Messy hair,
dark and frizzy, with
strands
sticking up
as if electrified by some unseen force.
I yawn,
and pull on
sweatpants,
a t-shirt.
I shuffle around in a slumbering sort of stupor.
Gradually I begin to feel the oxygen ,
flowing through my veins,
inundating my cells with life-giving air,
and clarity dawns with the sun.
20 minutes to go now.
“Tick, tock” the clock whispers.
Now to the mirror.
Makeup,
a mask.
Concealer spackled on to hide all imperfections
Inky mascara for longer lashes
Blush in an attempt to enliven my pallor.
I am an artist,
painting,
“perfecting.”
My face is my canvas.
Finished.
Do I look more me?
Is this me, the bright-eyed one?
Or am I the weary one that stumbled out of bed this morning?
Is there a difference between
the me that leaves the house,
fit to face the scrutiny of the hallways,
and the one in the early hours of the morning?
No.
For no matter what I put on my face,
my hair,
my body,
I cannot change my spirit.
I cannot change my soul.
I shall remain me.