I resisted the eyeliner for so long.

It always seemed too ... bold?
Too loudmouth?
Too slammed door?
Too forest fire?
Too look at me?

Mascara was my first vanity,
made my face into a thousand butterfly kisses.
Next, the lipstick, a crimson dictionary.
Then came the blush - a fluster.
Then came the cover up - a flawless fib.

I made myself into the women
I always saw in the movies;
so put together, so mature.

My parents let me know
before I was even allowed to wear makeup
that too much of it made you

unsavory, or desperate, or both.

Just like the women
who cut off all of their hair,
covered themselves in tattoos,
wore clothes to show off their sun-kissed skin.
I was taught to not be like them.

But one day
the pencil found its way
into my curious palm.

The first time I applied eyeliner,
I swear, a hallelujah chorus burst
through my bathroom ceiling.
A volcano erupted inside my lungs.
Engulfed in flames,
I grasped this new magic to my chest, like
an ex-Catholic once grasped the Bible.

Now instead of the Bible,
I swear my life on NYX’s Epic Eyeliner,

and the truth of it is how
my eyes have always been
the loudest thing about me.
Open the book of me
and see every drunk man in a bar
or every drunk boy at a house party
who thought the following a compliment:

“Has anyone ever told you
how big your eyes are?”

What am I even supposed to say to that?

“Congratulations, motherfucker!
You’re the first person ever
to notice that my eyes are scary big!”

The skill of pointing out the obvious
has never much impressed me.

My body is more than a conversation starter;
it is its own station, its own cathedral.
I built it brick-by-brick with these two good hands.
Muddied my skin laying down the foundation,
muscled the weight of becoming,
guarded the finale from violators with a shotgun -
I dare you to tempt me to use it,

and eyeliner is nothing if not
another brick to sanction this home.

Just like
all the hair I chop,
all the tattoos I gather,
all the skin I expose.

My eyeliner turns me into
something solid,
something so much myself.

If my eyes are the loudest thing about me,
then turn the volume up,
let my eyes grown even larger,
let them bloom to the size of skyscrapers.

Nowadays I refuse to go out into the world
without wings,
without daggers.
Bleed yourself senseless
if your gaze lingers too long.

Look at how sharp
these eyes sculpt themselves.
A pinprick sucker punch.
A refusal to apologize for all of this femme.

Look at how proud,
look at how loudmouth,
look at how epic
I have become.