Cold sparkling streams and green spongy moss

Left over mascara, sunk under my eyeballs, clings to the insides of my lids. I pull the long slimy spider legs off the conjunctiva and onto my cheeks. One poisoned blood shot eye looks back at me and somehow joins forces with my father from the past and tries to guilt me into understanding makeup’s stupidity. The graphic visual and the added bonus of an almost forgotten memory does nothing to sway my devotion to the product. Instead, I wonder if perhaps I should have bought the one with less doubling power and in the brown tint.

Senses are forgotten and Nothing consumes.