A Mask
A mask.
His make-up is his mask.
He always wore a mask, ever since he can remember. He was the quiet kid hiding behind his mother's legs when someone spoke to him. He was the cheeky boy who refused to take his hat off in the classrooms and didn't care about being called gay. He was the obnoxious teenager who rarely took off his sunglasses and didn't cut his hair.
He was the boy with make-up and bangs in his face. He still is. A boy with a mask.
He gets up an hour earlier in the morning and spends it putting on make-up carefully. Foundation to hide the slight shadow of stubble that is always visible, no matter how carefully he shaves. Dark eyeshadow and a thick layer of glitter and eyeliner to take the attention off the betraying blueness of his irises. Lipgloss to make his lips look infinitely inviting, because then no one notices whether he smiles or not.
Only then he can face the world and his theatrics of I'm fine and it's lovely to see you too work without a problem. No one ever sees that he is not fine. Not okay.
Behind the mask, he feels empty. Ugly. Tired and exhausted and, just dead.
That's why, every Thursday, he goes to the public restrooms at the underground station and between the junkies getting their fix he takes out his make-up bag. He adds a fresh layer of foundation to hide the purple circles under his eyes. He wipes off the smudged eyeliner and the eyeshadow. The new layer of the eyeshow is not black. He chooses a different colour every week; bright blue if he goes to the bar behind the cinema. Grass green if he goes to the new gay club few streets away from his flat. Shimmering silver if he goes to the downtown bar with the thumping techno music blasting all the time. And bright purple, bright purple is for the bar where the bartender looks at him with worried eyes as if he knew.
The eyeshadows get smudged few hours later, after he finds the strongest, most brutal man who hits on him, and lets the man fuck him in the restrooms. He cries because it burns, but he craves the burn.
It makes him feel alive.
He doesn't look up when he walks home then, because his make-up is ruined. The mask is ruined and he doesn't let people see what's behind the mask.
Sometimes, sometimes the discomfort lasts through the weekend. That's when he considers himself lucky. By Tuesday, the circles under his eyes are darker than usually and by Wednesday, he is counting hours to Thursday.
It's a circle, and he doesn't know how to break it. But he survives and that counts.
He survives with a mask on.
He always wore a mask, ever since he can remember. He was the quiet kid hiding behind his mother's legs when someone spoke to him. He was the cheeky boy who refused to take his hat off in the classrooms and didn't care about being called gay. He was the obnoxious teenager who rarely took off his sunglasses and didn't cut his hair.
He was the boy with make-up and bangs in his face. He still is. A boy with a mask.
He gets up an hour earlier in the morning and spends it putting on make-up carefully. Foundation to hide the slight shadow of stubble that is always visible, no matter how carefully he shaves. Dark eyeshadow and a thick layer of glitter and eyeliner to take the attention off the betraying blueness of his irises. Lipgloss to make his lips look infinitely inviting, because then no one notices whether he smiles or not.
Only then he can face the world and his theatrics of I'm fine and it's lovely to see you too work without a problem. No one ever sees that he is not fine. Not okay.
Behind the mask, he feels empty. Ugly. Tired and exhausted and, just dead.
That's why, every Thursday, he goes to the public restrooms at the underground station and between the junkies getting their fix he takes out his make-up bag. He adds a fresh layer of foundation to hide the purple circles under his eyes. He wipes off the smudged eyeliner and the eyeshadow. The new layer of the eyeshow is not black. He chooses a different colour every week; bright blue if he goes to the bar behind the cinema. Grass green if he goes to the new gay club few streets away from his flat. Shimmering silver if he goes to the downtown bar with the thumping techno music blasting all the time. And bright purple, bright purple is for the bar where the bartender looks at him with worried eyes as if he knew.
The eyeshadows get smudged few hours later, after he finds the strongest, most brutal man who hits on him, and lets the man fuck him in the restrooms. He cries because it burns, but he craves the burn.
It makes him feel alive.
He doesn't look up when he walks home then, because his make-up is ruined. The mask is ruined and he doesn't let people see what's behind the mask.
Sometimes, sometimes the discomfort lasts through the weekend. That's when he considers himself lucky. By Tuesday, the circles under his eyes are darker than usually and by Wednesday, he is counting hours to Thursday.
It's a circle, and he doesn't know how to break it. But he survives and that counts.
He survives with a mask on.