Were I honest
upon first meeting
I would eschew mascara
and don old
jeans, smeared
at the knee with
dirt from a garden
remnants of pine sap
and some sort of
cooking incident
Maybe I’d wear a ballcap
over practical pigtails
Definitely hiking boots
On a cold day flannel
would settle
in soft frumpy folds
around my curves
over a shirt whose
humorous message
expired long before
That sort of honesty
is frowned up
but somehow my dress
always has a splash
of food somewhere
as if my soul has
leaked through this
carefully made-up
disguise
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