The Skin Beneath

My puffy eyelids barely lifted to see the reflection of blurry eyed slits glaring back at me. Tears trickling down the strange perfectly made up cheeks, began to melt layers of paint. Layers meticulously applied to the flawed raw skin beneath. I watched, as make-up dripped from the emotionless face I didn’t recognize. My face. Everything that I was, everything that I had done to become this person I no longer recognized, leaked a colorful mess into the white porcelain sink. Blank and empty I stood and watched all the counterfeit bits I have plastered to my truth, through the years, listlessly fall away.

I touched a rag to the veneered face, hands heavy with weights I refused to put down. slowly wiping away the camouflage that I pretended was a part of me. With each scrape of lies, the raw ugly truth was uncovered. This concealer was for the time I lied to preserve my false integrity. This mask was the one I wore to convince others it was the other persons fault. As I scraped more plaster off the more I saw that all this make-up was just a facade, a false replica of what I wanted people to believe I was, who I wanted to believe I was.

The image. The perfect image, I created, all the costumes and masks I bought and paid for with, ego and self perseverance, slid down the drain. every drop of expensive covering tricked down more effortlessly than it was to maintain. The realness of my flaws was the only thing left. A bruise here, a gash of open flesh there. My bleary eyes glanced over to the make-up I used to hide my raw self. I considered plastering chemicals to my face to hide the inadequacies I didn’t want to look at. instead I pushed the iridescent glass bottles filled with plastic illusion off the counter, a small smile spread across my soul as they shattered on the cool marble.

The egotistical image was dead. The train wreck of my truth, the messes I participated in, my wrongs, my sins, longingly glared back at me begging for acceptance, and forgiveness. That’s when the real work began. I began to suture the deep purple gashes on my character, I started to let my skin heal. Instead of covering up the wounds I created I began the work to change them. I sank into my own skin, and accepted the responsibility of my scars, accepted the skin beneath the make-up. I wear my own skin as raw as the truth inside me flaws and all.

Author: infrontoftheother

A Human Just passing through by using one foot in front of the other. Making friendly and not so friendly observations in the pursuit of life.

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