Makeup

One after the other, I wear my masks, plaster the plastic smirk on my lips. I maintain a list of lies I tell so as to not lose track of them and hide the disappointments in the folds of my sleeves, the darkness of my soul in my steely eyes.

Ready.

I laugh slyly when people fall for my pretense.

I count my victories greedily and boast about them later.
One... two... three... thirteen...
I don't bat an eyelash while I lie.
I shun the well wishers who make sense.
I avoid encounters with the righteousness.
I rub shoulders with sanctimony and hypocrisy.

The paint on my face doesn't wash off in the innocence of the rain. Waterproof. Smudge-proof. Honesty-proof.

Nothing scares me, nothing hurts me. Except when I look into the mirror and the sad reflection asks,

'Who are you?'

'Fourteen.' I count.