Pain(t)

Every morning she paints on her face. She removes the bags from under her eyes, and hides the ones lying inside. She tries her best to cover the stains, tries her best with the ones in her brain. She fixes the cracks in her foundation, but the ground is crumbling around her. She feels so tiny to the world yet so large to herself. Throughout the day you'll see her painting on her smile, and having it be washed away by societies rain. On the outside we put on our masks to hide the fact that we are ugly. This fact is in fact not a fact. The only ugly we have is in our minds; placed there by the manipulated lies of the world around us. If only they made makeup for our heart.