This take on the prompt is actually just an edited version of my previous attempt. “Makeup” is about being told you’re pretty, but only believing it’s because of the, well, makeup. The ending is altered, to share that you don’t need your makeup for others to find you pretty. Also, new title, maybe? Which is a better fit, “Makeup” , “Gorgeous” , or [other]?

Anyways…

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My grandmother always told me

I’d grown up so much, yet I knew a secret.

I was never old enough to be included,

No matter what, talking was all I’d get.

I was grown and started wearing makeup.

My grandmother told me I was pretty.

I looked myself in the mirror,

and couldn’t help but cry tears of pity.

My grandmother always told me

I was gorgeous, just like my mother.

But, you see, I only look like her,

same nose and even same hair color.

I was gorgeous on the outside,

but even that wasn’t true.

That’s what I’ve been saying,

as my brain drowned in blue.

My mirror image believed in makeup,

and eventually real me did too.

I’d practice it over and over again

until it finally looked like I grew.

One day, my grandma came to visit,

My appearance wasn’t my focus, and yet…

My grandmother looked me in my eyes,

“You’re gorgeous,” she had so easily said.

I wasn’t wearing makeup and my hair wasn’t up,

My brain searched for reasons why,

why my grandmother told me I was pretty,

but I could only feel it was an outright lie.

I thought it was a lie until the next afternoon,

I guided myself to the mirror and stared.

No mascara or eye shadow, nor lip gloss or anything.

It seemed my real eyes had let down their glare.

My grandmother always told me

that I was pretty, and beyond makeup,

this was something I could not believe.

Until that one day, when she whispered so abrupt,

“You’re gorgeous.”

I’m still so proud, so proud that I can pretty,

without makeup or curly hair, flawless skin and outright flair,

I’m so proud that I can be me.

Maybe makeup doesn’t make me now,

but it did for quite some time,

please look to the mirror and be proud,

because it’s not the “guaranteed beauty” that makes you divine.