Mascara

Two dark lines, parallel

Like an equal sign

Over pale gold lashes,

Or is it unequal?

Maybe I’m over thinking this,

I’m not much of a feminist.

I don’t feel oppressed by dresses,

But is it not strange

That strangers think I’m young with an unmarked face?

Why am I the oldest girl I know with light rimmed eyes?

It’s like we reach high school and overnight inky darkness scrawls

Over the childish, curious, wide eyes.

Or is that what happened to my innocence?

Why does it matter, why have I been asked

If I’m a lesbian, or if I’m just lazy?

I’m probably lazy,

And stubborn, and I accept change

Like a broken parking meter,

But I haven’t decided if I mind writing my gender, my culture,

Across my face.

I don’t know where to draw the line.