Mascara

I don’t need waterproof—I need cry proof. Something that stops the tears in their tracks like, “Not today… not while you’re wearing this.” Because sometimes, the brush in my hand feels more like armor than art. One stroke of mascara to lift the lash is really a whisper to myself: You’re still her. Still divine, still standing—even when the day tries to blur your outline. Even on the days when my joy feels like it’s on a rollercoaster and I’m riding front row with no seatbelt, I still curl these lashes, dab that gloss, pull myself together in the rearview mirror, and whisper, “You didn’t fall apart. You just felt it all.” No, I don’t need waterproof. I need faithful. Cry-proof. The kind of black magic that still flies through the storm.