Collections

I feel my pain in
the eyeliner collecting
beneath my nails.
The anxiety.
The anger.
The smooth, black
pencil that piles
up further into
the crevices between
the tips of my fingers
and the underside of
my nails.
Scrubbing but the
evidence is still there.
So... evident.
A symbol of dark,
mysterious beauty.
What is makeup?
Cover.
A disguise.
A way to make us
feel beautiful.
I don't.
I don't feel beautiful.
A collection:
A gathering of
memoirs that mean
something to someone.
My only collections:
Charcoal smudged
beneath my nails
and the black
feathers that fall
to my floor
in pain,
anxiety,
and anger
that mean something
to me.