It's after 2:00 and nothing good could happen, and yet here I feel like a bit of nail paint, a daub of scent, a pretty shoe.
I could comb out my hair, or put them in lazy curls, and brush until they bounce and shine, and then click a selfie.
A nice shade of scarlet, muted with matt pink to sit delicately on my lips, a whispering blush of bronze and gold in orange whiff, to my just out of bed, flushed with scantily clad chic look for the night.
Did I forget my eyes, sooty to the core, smeared with a wodge of thick kohl that looks desirous but shy still, and add to that a hint of moss green..like a pool of liquid snooker floating about the inner eyelids—for when you want a shiver of forest in a wink..and a wink it is, a bit of pout, some sparrow face and then self doubt.
But then I leave the phone be, and pull out a little brush, that drips Moroccan earth..it's a shade of flesh, a fawn colour, upon my toes. A layer of glossy paint, for twinkling toes.
Nighttime vanity in cinemascopic delusion. In Dolby illogical surround.
A bit of pout, some innocent profile, an oblivious sparrow face, a renegade hipster gaze.
And then darken my lips, smear the kohl and lo and behold I'm heroin chic..add a bit of plump, some dried flowers,six inches of tattered veil and Crimson shrouds, my next selfie, I'm gothic babe and all.
But yeah, preening at this hour?
But then why not?
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