Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice.
These are the ingredients of my daily makeup.
I first apply the Sugar to my lips. It works to sweeten the delivery of my words, forms a filter in which only the most acceptable terms flow through and escape like sticky syrup. The Sugar barrier crystallizes and bans the trespassing of any truth, any opinion, and any thought that lacks popularity.
Next the Spice. Just a touch around the eyes for the perfect amount of intrigue, mystique, drama. Only enough to find the perfect balance between an annoyance and a bore. Enough for people to laugh and call me spicy, salty, saucy. The right amount of Spice makes others laugh, no matter at whose expense.
Everything Nice ties the whole visage together. It’s the foundation. I rub it between my fingers, slimy and oily and paint it over my face. It smooths my faults, covers them, hides them away from my peers and friends.
But I am Chemical X, and I scrape away the Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice hour by hour until my makeup is translucent and everyone repels from my faults. At the end of nearly everyday the Sugar’s crystal barrier is too shattered from the tumultuous truths working past it and the Spice is too smudged and blurred from a day of fake smiles and tears in the bathroom stalls.
I wear Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice, but I am Chemical X. My super powers are fake and destructive. They’re misleading and repulsive. I do not blossom. My bubble is a brick wall. I do not live a life as sweet as buttercups. I am no Powerpuff Girl.
These are the ingredients of my daily makeup.
I first apply the Sugar to my lips. It works to sweeten the delivery of my words, forms a filter in which only the most acceptable terms flow through and escape like sticky syrup. The Sugar barrier crystallizes and bans the trespassing of any truth, any opinion, and any thought that lacks popularity.
Next the Spice. Just a touch around the eyes for the perfect amount of intrigue, mystique, drama. Only enough to find the perfect balance between an annoyance and a bore. Enough for people to laugh and call me spicy, salty, saucy. The right amount of Spice makes others laugh, no matter at whose expense.
Everything Nice ties the whole visage together. It’s the foundation. I rub it between my fingers, slimy and oily and paint it over my face. It smooths my faults, covers them, hides them away from my peers and friends.
But I am Chemical X, and I scrape away the Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice hour by hour until my makeup is translucent and everyone repels from my faults. At the end of nearly everyday the Sugar’s crystal barrier is too shattered from the tumultuous truths working past it and the Spice is too smudged and blurred from a day of fake smiles and tears in the bathroom stalls.
I wear Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice, but I am Chemical X. My super powers are fake and destructive. They’re misleading and repulsive. I do not blossom. My bubble is a brick wall. I do not live a life as sweet as buttercups. I am no Powerpuff Girl.
