I am eight years old.
My lips are perfectly pink. They don't need to look glossy or tinted redder. My cheeks don't need this, either. My eyes stand out well enough on their own without being lined with black paint. The mascara weighs on my lashes and makes me tired and itchy. This shit on my eyelids shouldn't be there, either.
That was a bad word. I am afraid to say bad words, but I've got a few in my head. My friend told me that the word "bitch" means "female dog," but I think she's wrong. I don't think I've ever heard it used in this context. Actually, I think it's a word for people like you. I say this to you with my eyes. You threaten me because you hear me loud and clear.
Every other weekend, I have to sit here and endure as you put this shit on my face. But that's not why you're a bitch. That's why you're an idiot. What makes you a bitch is the fact that you expect me to be silent and still every time your hand slips and the curling iron burns the top of my ear, or you make a mistake and have to pull a fine comb through my hair that you've already soaked in hairspray, or you accidentally pinch my eyelid with the eyelash curler.
But most of all, it's when you tell me that it's all my mom's fault that you have to do this. Because my mom thinks it's okay that I don't learn about this stuff right now. My mom thinks I'm perfect the way I am. Yes, I suppose it is my mom's fault that I am the way I am, because my mom knows I'm eight years old, you dumb bitch.
I don't tell you this. I am silent and still, letting you turn me into this walking parade float in a fat, itchy dress, socks with lace that gives me rashes, and panty hose that rides up my crotch. Yes, and then once I look "halfway decent," as you call it, we go somewhere, like church, where I am a fucking freak. You've successfully made it impossible for me to make any friends.
Did you ever stop to notice that the other children aren't wearing mascara? Yet you treat them better than me. I think it's because they're actually happy, and you know it. You didn't do this to your own children. Sure, they paint themselves up like this now. But I've seen the sun-stained pictures. No whores there. Just smiling, freckle-faced children in T-shirts and shorts. They look halfway decent to me. Didn't they look that way to you?
Oh that's right. It's different with me. You have to rescue me, don't you? Because no one else will. Because you're a good mother. You've popped out three children, while my mother only has me. Well that makes you a goddamn fucking expert, doesn't it? You tell me all about it. Every other weekend. You know how to raise children. You'll show her, won't you?
I've got news for you. It takes my mom hours to undo what you've done to me every time I get home. This Sunday, she'll wash this shit off my face and untangle my hair. But she won't undo your lessons. Every time someone hurts me, I'll be silent and still and nobody will know my pain. I'll learn to be strong. Thanks to you, I'll even learn such poise and composure that I could shed a tear right in front of someone's eyes and they'll never notice.
But you know what? You'll never convince me that you're a good mother - a better mother. I am eight years old. I'm not your doll. And you're a pathetic piece of shit.