Layers of black

Anger or melancholy prompt a more frequent use of liquid eyeliner and dark shades of lipstick. I smear them on, layer upon layer upon layer. With this thick armour I am now strong, dangerous, invincible. I meander through the flesh packed into the tunnels of the London Underground with one leather-gloved hand nestled in my pocket. The sound of my stilettos hitting the ground precede my arrival on the platform. We're packed into the carriages like sardines. We shove, we push, we jostle each other. Sometimes I smile. Sometimes I sneer. Sometimes my face is made of stone. It's 9am, and my eyes are in mourning.