Displeased

Dad and I. All over again. I storm up to my room, select the loudest CD's I have. Pull up all my TV shows on the computer and begin applying heavy coats of makeup. I comb conditioner through my hair and put it up in a sleek, dark bun. My grubby jeans and T-shirt come off. I slip into my party dress, a one-shouldered champagne colored dress, tulle of the same color crinkled on the torso, that material also layered in five wavy tiers on the skirt. A thick dose of mascara, several sweeps of blush. I sit down and try not to cry. That is what the mascara is for, I wont let it run. I never wear make-up. I have nowhere to go. All dressed up, just to give me something to do other than cry. anything at all.