Deconstructing My Constructed Self He paints my face—olive—light, a gift from ancient ancestors. His strokes thick, quick, powder flies everywhere. He draws my lips–firm, first an outline, plumb, overlaid with a layer for shine, fine. Then my eyes–smoldering, brown–shadowed and still. Lined with deepest black, my lashes traced. Then the finishing touches—rouge–to unhide my cheekbones. I feel beautiful today. My face masked by paint to hide an empty pallet. The brush rises again—wavy locks cascade from its tip—then pull away, twisting upwards, to crown my painted face. Leaving only tendrils to fall, to touch, my soft powdered face. But the day is over now; the paint no longer needed. I … Continue reading Deconstructing My Constructed Self