By Beatrice Diane Bartolome

Perhaps it comes with growing older or wiser—rarely both,
But I’ve become weary of burning red bouquets,
Or pretty rings polished to perfection.
I’m satisfied with cotton pads and hydrating serums.

When the dusk settles in,
A hand wipes away my makeup,
The other cradles my cheeks as I try not to fall asleep.
No beauty guru can teach you nor recommend this tip.

A niche foundation for a relationship,
And a light concealer for sleepless nights.
I won’t contour his faults or act like a shady queen,
Even when he pinches my cheeks too hard and they glow brightly.

Sharp eyeliners melt at the softness of his gaze.
Crushed diamonds on my cheeks can never amount to his kiss.
He claims his dreams are filled with shades of midnight.
Cheap lipstick stains forever marking.   

(Illustration by Miles Munich Montreal J. Jimenez/FEU Advocate)                         

(Illustration by Miles Munich Montreal J. Jimenez/FEU Advocate)