The Dance of Insecurity

Are you insecure? Is your body perfect? How does the unfiltered and unpainted skin of yours make you feel?

[Questions I only ask myself and no one else.]

Everyday, I paint myself a new mask, to feel at home, just to be able to get out of my house. To start off, I put on MAC foundation as I struggle to build my own. My bare skin has countless flaws I am not willing to display. I cannot bare it.

First, I layer on Urban Decay Primer Potion to hide how decayed I feel. If only there was a potion that could prime my mind into stealth. I brush on an earthy hue eyeshadow as an attempt to brush off my problems. The dust that falls out of the brush is a reminiscent disappointment. Those small specks remind me my past mistakes will follow me no matter how careful I am in the present. Is it ironic I love dark shadows because I, myself, hide within the shadows of my murky and masked feelings?

Next, I line my eyes to feel secure and set distinction. How is it that two dark lines instantly improve my confidence and mood? Also, where does one draw the line between necessity and obsession when it comes to maquillage? I’m on the fence myself with this question.

Finally, I cover my lips with an unnatural color to cover up the truth I wish to say. As I change the color of my lips, I change my clothes, too. I slip into an outfit quickly and slip out of my house into my awaiting car ride.

/ 15 minutes later /

The slightly awkward car ride between my Lyft driver and I soon comes to an end as I arrive at my destination: the town’s nightclub. Step by step, I walk up the stairs, drifting away from my daytime daze and unmaliciously morph into my nighttime muse. I link up with my girlfriends and of course, the fleet of alcohol arrives and the debauchery begins. The club’s tunes turn up and so do we. We head to the dance floor to rid of the day’s stress and forgo life’s hassles.

/ Time flies without stress under its wings /

The music is cut. That’s usually the first sign that the night and the facade of being someone I’m not is ending. The lights shock me with the reality and I am no longer who I think I am. Everyone vacates the club. I slither into a Lyft and enter my home slyly, hoping not to make a sound, and begin undressing myself. I’m no longer in a dress and my skin is covered in comfortable clothing.

Then, I move onto my skincare routine. As I wipe off ‘my face’, I become ‘undone’ but I feel settled as the makeup is taken off. The more raw skin I see, the more relieved I am. Next, I brush my teeth to brush away the taste of the night’s lingering liquor. At last, I slip into bed and drift away into my dreams.

Author's Note: This post is an updated and revised version of a 
private Tumblr post.

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