There is nothing special about my little tube of mascara. A cheap, pharmaceutical knockoff that clumps up after two hours of wear. The printed name on the front of the golden plastic capsule has worn off till there are only remnants of its original holder. The wand is prickly and uneven; the liquid probably toxic because it always makes my eye red and twitch. And during the hot summer months, when it would lay on the bottom of my purse, bystanders could smell the burning plastic and the bubbling ink. But the wand created magic whenever it touched my jaded, dark eyes. There is nothing special about my little tube of mascara, except that it made me feel seen. Glares and stares transformed into admiration. Endless questions about “my secrets”. Turned heads and transparent smiles filled my atmosphere. Girls circling me like flies having their last taste of honey. No. Like vultures, dissecting their prey to its bare bones.

One morning, I woke up late. I stuffed my bag with books, folders, notebooks, and a calculator. But I forgot my little tube of mascara. I dashed into school with my sleepless dull eyes and my greasy, uncombed mange secured by a loose hair tie on the top of my head. But no one even noticed. No stares. No glares. No reassuring calls of affirmation. I felt their gaze shoot from behind me, jabbing away at my back. The blood gushed down making big red splashes that they used to blush their ghastly complexion and tint their flaky lips. There is nothing special about my little tube of mascara, the toxic black ink and the cactus brush. But sometimes I feel there is nothing special about me without my little tube of mascara.