I’m so tired of performing magic spells with my mascara wand.  Ribbon curling my lashes and lining them in gold pollen powder.  I’m tired of dusty pink petal polish on my lips.  Pinched cheeks and diamond drops dripping from my ears.  I’m tired and for once I want to look that way and have it be okay.  The birth canal punctured blood vessels under my eyes and left twilight moons there.  The color is beautiful.  It’s natural.  It’s black-hole-lovely.  It’s a hand painted masterpiece that I blot with cream-covered sponges in the morning.  I’m freckled.  I’m tired.  And if the drugstore is closed and my potion bottles are scraped bare, I lock the doors.  I sleep to change my complexion.  I cover the mirrors and draw the shades.  I am tired, and I want that to be enough.