I stopped wearing makeup three weeks a go.
Stopped covering up freckles, stopped lining my eyes, stopped everything.
Waking up and getting ready no longer took hours. I could shower, dry my hair, straighten it, and leave.
I started wearing makeup so early in life. In fifth grade, I resembled a glitchy street hooker in GTA V. Blacks, purples, and icy blues made my face look more like a watercolor of bruises rather than anything artistic or classy.
I got better at it, though. Learned the ins and outs of cat eyes, learned how to apply lipstick so boys would notice my maturity instead of my awkward conversational skills (if you could even call them that).
Finally, I’m realizing who I am. Sans the eyeliner, mask of foundation, better blend that contour, babygirl.
Past all of that, I can wake up in the mornings and see me. Me, dammit.
Me with the freckles I hid under vampire foundation, freckles and tan skin from playing outside and glowing in the sun.
Me with the jawline of my grandfather I tried to hide with clever contoured shadows until I realized I am stubborn and strong, and I am just like him.
Me with the unruly waves of blonde hair and the broad freckled shoulders and the unapologetic soccer calves and the eyes that really only open halfway and crinkle when I grin and the lopsided smile of a girl who is just learning to exist.
Pure and simple.
Not to impress, not to disguise, but to simply be.
To live with one focus: living.