Make Up

i wear my father's face when i am contemplative
and my mother's when i smile.

this face bears both their joys:
however rare and fleeting,
and their unbridled internal turmoil:
                                              their singular constant.

                                              my earliest memory is a lashing-out
                                              in the form of a wrist slap
                                              for failing to colour inside the lines

knowing this, then, would you take it back?
i do not take the word 'beautiful' lightly
when you use it to describe me.

you ought to know where i come from:
this beauty stems
from as much dark as there is light,

                                               i am both water and well.