She pours on more foundation because her face is full of cracks and needs to support a house of false happiness.

She dabs concealer on the nonhuman pimples that bear patches of limelight-seeking kin, asexual or hermaphroditic in the sense that if there is one or two, more will soon follow.

She hides her inferior lips, rabbits in a hat of Dior's Winter Rose.

She plucks the stray hairs on her eyebrows, abominations unheard of, and they fall to the sink, getting rinsed away to the ocean as bottles containing letters of nonuniformity and shame.

She finishes her painting, the last strokes being the obligatory smile and self-doubt signing its name.