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.