Maybe it’s the Maybelline
In 1872, the first commercial mascara was created:
Eugene Rimmel’s plumping serum--
a formula consisting of petroleum jelly and coal dust.
A rite of passage for middle school girls.
Cheap drugstore Maybelline,
pulled over lashes,
over and over,
until the hairs clumped together--
Just like how those girls stick together,
traveling in packs that I pretended to hate.
I wanted to be more like them.
Sneaking into my sister’s makeup.
I used her mascara.
Got a cyst on my eye.
I will never do that again.
It was like the Universe told me,
No, it’s not your time yet.
I settled for an eye lash curler and Vaseline.
I am jealous of those girls now.
When the tiny bottle and wand don’t fit in my hand,
I try over and over.
Black smears on my fingertips,
a constant reminder of who I am not.
Uneven, stuck together–
I practice at night instead of studying. I’ll do it in the morning.
The mascara weighs my eyes down in class.
I’m fighting sleep as I watch those wide-awake girls
Is there a HIIT for eyelids?
No one looks at me differently.
No one looks at me.
I wonder if Mr. Rimmel is a scam artist.
Do guys even like it?
Do I even like it?
Sitting in my chair with a test
I barely passed--
I let my finger run over the still wet ink--
my fingers coated in another layer of black.