Her cracked fingernails
Are now covered in a fresh varnish
Like a clouded jewel freshly polished.
Her bloodied lips
Are painted a mild red
That covers the scabs and cuts and blends into the ruby dribbles
But its pinkish rose feels like acrid green poison.
Her dark eyes
Are accented with strokes of a brush
That leave sickly compliments behind
But never raise fists into her vision.
Her bruised knuckles
Are treated worst of all
They bind them in rings
And chain them up in thick powders
That rise in plumes from her hands
And threaten to choke her for her disobedience.
She stands in her new dress
Tailored to make her into a mannequin
The mirror’s mahogany edging
Is as shiny as her shoes that pinch
There are cobalt streaks and amethyst purples
Lying placid on her eyelids
Pink roses have been
Shoved onto her cheeks until
The thorns cut her lips that perfect red
Her dress cries its deep blue
Its silk drops to the floor in tears
Her nails reflect the same
All the color is there upon her,
But none of it is shining through.
She rubs at her hands,
Smearing that thick powder
Staining her knuckles
Until the bruises
Peak through the mask.
They’re a beautiful cloud
Of plum flowers,
Electric yellows that shimmer against her skin
Baby blues that hum familiar tunes
Pale greens that remind of spring days
Darkened blues that whisper sweet words
And soft browns that comfort and warm.
Oh so bright.
And are the last reminder of what lies beneath.