Make-up for ironing in

A whipping wind numbs the tears that track down my cheeks and steals them away, drop by orange drop. My over-applied cosmetic wall melts away under the constant pressure. My camouflage is disappearing and I have no-where to hide. From you, from me, from these unwanted feelings.

Lipstick smears a jokers grin across my face and the back of my woolen gloved hand. Blackened smudges curl drunken catlike around my reddened, kaleidoscope filled, eyes.

I put on my make-up this morning, to show the world I could still make an effort. I wanted to show you that I could be better and I could be more. I wanted you to notice, to say I look pretty, to make me feel something again.

The constant hollowness that drums between my shoulder blades has felt like a target these last few weeks. I've grown exhausted by the verbal attacks, the written demands and the brushing over my own needs to time. I've admitted I can't do everything and in response you've let me know like I can't do anything.

You snorted at my coloured eyelids and turned away. I ironed and folded and handed you your clothes, receiving payment of a grunt. I put my make-up on to do the ironing today, I dressed up to do nothing. Another day locked in and I will never be enough.

I excused myself quietly. My temper had swelled and quelled in record time and left in it's wake the heavy thump of heartbreak.

Anxious beats base through my soul and I swallow down yet another sob. The mental pain has turned physical and my body doubles over, whacked with the effort to keep my tears in. I can't stand straight, afraid that those convulsive cries will find their way out into the open, burst from my mouth and invite more scorn from you.

I push down again and drag in deep lungfulls. The drumming of my anxiety dampens, numbed once again. I can't do this. The pressure from all around is squeezing me too tight.

The hurdles are too high on every path and the only way out is to fall. I’ve climbed everyday and hooked my fingers into every crevice on the cracked cliff edge to pull myself upwards and over. But when I look up I see nothing but more rock, cliffs looming over me. Up and up into the dark, the cliff curls over the top of me like a ledge and I can’t see another handhold to swing myself up. Below is an easy route, the light at the bottom is iridescent, lighting the short drop back. It’s clear and bright and tempting.

I want to fall, to relish the feeling of slipping beneath the congested space of ridicule battling for attention. I want to dip low and cover my ears, block my mind and wear my make-up for myself alone.

Laughter should be cathartic, could be gentle, would be soul-lifting, but to me during these darkened days it's not. It's a hollowed sound of mockery; the cruel belt of a mean spirited mistress. I hate laughter. It acts as the crudely carved bookends on a shelf of detrimental and diseased tomes. Leather bound books with their covers cracked from repeated bending and unloving use, their pages torn, folded and stained by the running of dirty, thoughtless fingers. These books are to be owned and hoarded but not appreciated by the inquisitive eyes of the gentlest readers,

In years to come the book will become a sad tale, told on social media pages to warn of the dangers of cruel laughter and uninterested reading. People will vow to change, again, to be better, to weather the same storms and appreciate each other with open hearts and minds and considerateness. Then they will fall back into the comments section and start pointless arguments with strangers.

I'm going to hide, to slip beneath the noise and wear my make-up for myself alone.