I do not own friends/actors/characters, but I do own red lipstick...I think most girls do...
Staring dejectedly into the mirror, hands shaking, I wonder if I'm going to be sick, and in a way, I long for it.
My longing goes unnoticed and the basin stays clean, but the hands still shake.
I breathe in, breathe out, and notice my reflection glaring back at me.
She hates me.
I can see it in her eyes.
There is loathing, mixed with a small dose of pity, which only serves to heighten the loathing.
Self loathing.
The hate in her eyes belongs only in mine, and I love and hate that I hate myself.
I lift up my lipstick tube – cherry red, adding a bit of colour into my black existence – and manage to apply it despite the shake of my hands.
My cherry red lipstick – my savour.
The need for an inanimate object terrifies and soothes me, and I wonder what I would do without it. Without the small amount of colour in day.
I wonder if I would die. If I would still live, but die inside, and that wonder seems meaningless because I've already died inside. The only thing that still has life are my hands, and only when I'm black, or at least shades of grey.
But with the lipstick on, I manage a smile and the hands go limp. Somehow, I am set for the day. Somehow, I will be able to manage. Somehow, I will not scream until late at night, with my face in the pillow, cherry red lipstick forgotten on a used tissue.
I manage a smile, and my reflection still glares and still hates me, but with that cherry red lipstick on, I am protected.
Flicking the light switch off, I leave the bathroom, and wonder when I will be able to cover my lips with beige.