I wake up and face the mirror to see

pillow creases,

zits,

dark circles surrounding my eyes like the craters of the moon.

Messy hair,

dark and frizzy, with

strands

sticking up

as if electrified by some unseen force.

I yawn,

and pull on

sweatpants,

a t-shirt.

I shuffle around in a slumbering sort of stupor.

Gradually I begin to feel the oxygen ,

flowing through my veins,

inundating my cells with life-giving air,

and clarity dawns with the sun.

20 minutes to go now.

“Tick, tock” the clock whispers.

Now to the mirror.

Makeup,

a mask.

Concealer spackled on to hide all imperfections

Inky mascara for longer lashes

Blush in an attempt to enliven my pallor.

I am an artist,

painting,

“perfecting.”

My face is my canvas.

Finished.

Do I look more me?

Is this me, the bright-eyed one?

Or am I the weary one that stumbled out of bed this morning?

Is there a difference between

the me that leaves the house,

fit to face the scrutiny of the hallways,

and the one in the early hours of the morning?

No.

For no matter what I put on my face,

my hair,

my body,

I cannot change my spirit.

I cannot change my soul.

I shall remain me.