I put on the mascara at seven am

I put on the mascara at seven a.m.,

small brushstrokes, careful, precise.

By noon my shoulders had locked, a stem

of tension running up my neck like ice.

The makeup stayed perfect. That was the deal.

You hold yourself so still, so tight,

so aware of every way you're seen and real,

that your whole body becomes a held-in sight.

I looked at five p.m. and saw the smudge—

a dark mark under my left eye,

proof that something had finally budge,

that the stillness couldn't hold or fly.

I didn't fix it. Let them see

the cost of keeping it all in place.

My shoulders didn't release until I was free,

until I washed it off and felt my face

go slack, my neck release its hold.

That's what they don't tell you:

beauty is labor. The body grows cold

holding itself. Femininity is true

only when you're breaking at the seams,

when you stop performing and just ache.

That's when it becomes what it means—

the price that you pay, the way you wake.