a little girl at my mother's mirror

I am a little girl at my mother's mirror
clumsily applying the angriest shade of red lipstick
my little fingers could find.
"I look all grown up!" I proclaim,
when really, the makeup accentuates
my immaturity.You laugh brightly
as you wipe my face clean.

The plaster mask I hastily formed
to hide behind crumbles in my shaky hands.
“Look, Mommy, it’s okay - I’m still
holding it all together.” But you say,
“Baby, it’s already broken, and
holding it tightly doesn’t make it whole -
it just keeps your hands full of a mess.
If you give it to me, your hands will be free
to hold and make and do great things.
Trust me.” And I let it go.