I have no voice here.

Just a wimper, buried in eyeliner and lip stains.

How could you do this to me?

My tears come out blood when my eyes aren't shut closed

from the products you used on me.

As if that mascara could make you beautiful on the outside

when on the inside you continue to find comfort at night

while you take off the very makeup that I can't remove from the tufts of fur that I have left.

I feel so boorishly used.

More used than the twenty-eight dollar blush

that comes in the adorable packaging, complete with a brush.

More used than the thirty-six dollar foundation 

That makes you feel so damn beautiful and flawless.

My friends and I, we don't find comfort in this.

And even though we aren't like others who are ruthlessly slaughtered

For their meat and skin, 

We are left to suffer.

And though we aren't beat to fight against our own kind,

We face a different kind of battle--

a battle revolving around cosmetic counters and makeup mirrors. 

And though there are a few people who try to stick up for me,

I have no voice here.