Makeup is her warpaint

Makeup is her war paint.

She salutes the mirror,

Woman no more,

A soldier in her prime.

A victim of a gender war,

Who blends in through standing out.

Attention. Prize. Doll-

Something is missing.

Makeup is her warpaint.

Steady in the foundation

Smear of blood from plastic knife

Smashes on the blush-

Innocent. Pure. What a load of-

She leaves to the barracks.

Makeup is her warpaint.

She marches to the beat of man’s own drum,

The thump of their heart as she draws near.

She’s got them. Trapped them.

It’s hers for the taking.

Can’t look herself in the eye walking

Past the mirror.

It’s cracked.

Makeup is her warpaint?

She tries to pass on her lessons.

But I refuse.

For every wrinkle is battle bound,

Scars are my tattoos.

No warpaint for me.

Defiance my weapon.

Look at me now.

Natasha Stewart

Categories: Poetry

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