We’re not done until the mascara’s running.
It seems to be the ultimate symbol for shameless sluts, representative of a night of long, hard fucking. Tears are inevitable, but the mascara doesn’t always run right off the bat. Sometimes, you’ve got to make me cry for hours. If it’s the waterproof kind, it’ll take all night to turn me into your pitiful mess.
It’s the only visual evidence that you’ve used me for all that I’m worth. Everything else won’t seem like enough. Everything else is just asking for more. The begging, the screaming, the initial crying. The sore pussy, the reddened ass, the disastrous hair. It’s all just a part of the process of being your slut, of being your pretty little fucktoy. None of it matters more than the ugly black streaks running down my face, because they are indicative of exhaustion. They tell you that I’ve cried enough to wash it all away, that the humbled face underneath it all is beginning to resurface. They tell you that you’ve completely and utterly ruined me, that you’ve reduced me into nothing but a heap of sweaty, slutty limbs.
That was the goal, though.
I’m only pretty and put-together so you’ll tear me apart.
Glitter eyeliner for me, as I don’t wear mascara, but — still.