By Andrea Guerrer
Today I began my routine as usual. But it was insufficient.
I headed to the beauty department where we all know I must have more and more to cover
I need ...I need to cover this.
Ran past the deep, the mediums, the beige, ran past it all because all I really want is ivory.
In a scatter I grab it all: the liquid the powder the anything that will put those people in their
In front of my mirror, in a rush, it goes on top of my shelf like my life depends on it.
Puffs of powder and drizzles of the foundation...yes it works. It hides all this misery. I rub it in
an effort to make it sink, please be permanent, please stay I cannot go back.
—You would never know. Don’t look at me like this.—
And I remember the remarks, how they sting, how I must really push this identity away!
I don’t want to be me I want ivory!
Strong and privileged like the jewels I saw on the display that day.
This makeup is perfection. The liquid foundation cakes and sits 6 miles high on my
horrendous skin, yes every crease is filled with the color, the lack of color.
The powder oh how beautiful it sets, it ghosts me, it completes me, and I am Marie
Antoinette in the flesh.
I top it all off with a brown pencil, freckles are prettier on the pale didn’t you know. Oh and my
eyes yes my wretched eyes they are much too plain. Hastily ran to the kitchen and poked my
pupils ever so slightly. Blue food coloring should do. This should do.
—Don’t look yet. I am almost complete.—
I lay down on the floor and take my handheld mirror. Quite the look I believe. Oh my, the
tears have damaged my day’s makeup. Unnatural, filthy smears line my cheekbones and I
cannot, will not ever realize, that ivory is impossible, I can never be the sweet ivory they
—So don’t ever look at me. I am not the ivory beauty. Don’t ever look.—