… it’s okay to cry.
An acute awareness of avoidant behavior in the act of said behavior, hovers somewhere between the precipice of madness and peace, and in some sects, they look exactly the same.
My best hope is that no one is looking, so I have time to put on enough makeup to cover the pallor of ‘abc’ approved depression.
No, my cheeks are not naturally red nor do my eyes sparkle without a hint of gold glitter. It’s distracting just enough to form a smile in response to the allure of my lips, which are a natural spectrum of pink beneath a shiny gloss.
Some days life feels like gloss and purple pigment, and my mind feels like a mixing spoon endeavoring to make something flavorful of the dark shiny sticky substance within. But I’m not hungry, and fear asking someone to eat me when I haven’t even been approved for the assembly line.