this face was assembled with intention

a poem about makeup, survival, and girlhood as quiet rebellion

from the collection:
The Crown Was Never Yours
→ Part I: Thrones They Never Built for Us

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why this poem, why now

makeup isn’t always about transformation.
sometimes, it’s about defense.
about reclaiming the body they tried to shrink.
about naming what they called excess as evidence.
about wearing red not to seduce, but to remember.

this poem came from that space.
the mirror. the memory. the mornings we painted ourselves brave.
it’s for the girls who were told beauty was their only currency.
and who turned it into a shield instead.

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what series is this from?

this piece is part of The Crown Was Never Yours — my poetry series on sacred feminine rage, girlhood, memory, and reclamation.
section i — thrones they never built for us — is the softest and sharpest chapter.
it lives where survival met silence.
where power wasn’t handed down, so we carved it into eyeliner.

they gave us mirrors, not swords.
pink cages, not armor.
told us power makes us ugly
and silence makes us safe.

but we remember.
every time we were called too much,
every bruise we laughed off,
every shame we stitched into our thighs.

this is the part where we remember
the rooms that shrunk us—
and the thrones we made from their ruins.

makeup isn’t warpaint, but I wear it like armor

not to hide, not to please, not to attract—
but to carve space between the skin and the world’s hunger,
to smear resilience across eyelids that once closed in fear,
to trace sharpness in places they tried to soften.

it’s not decoration, it’s declaration,
a color-coded manifesto they’ll call vanity
because they’ve never understood how survival can shimmer,
how rage can wear gloss and still taste like ash.

this red isn't for your gaze, it’s for the girls who never made it,
who weren’t allowed to take up space unless they were polished,
who were told they were too much and not enough in the same breath
so they built entire identities in eyeliner just to be heard.

and when you say I look beautiful, remember—
this face was assembled with intention,
not for you to consume
but for me to endure.

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if this poem stirred something in you—
you’re not alone in that ache.
you’re not dramatic. you’re remembering.

leave a comment, share your own girlhood warpaint story, or just sit with it awhile.
some poems aren’t for dissecting.
some are for witnessing.

see you next week,
for another throne they never built.
until then—
paint on, soft armor and all.

© 2025 Solena Vyhra. All rights reserved.
This work is part of the poetry collection The Crown Was Never Yours.
No part of this poem, including text or visual design, may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.
For inquiries, permissions, or collaborations, please contact: solenavyhra@gmail.com

Illustration and layout by Solena Vyhra.
Published on Substack via Where Silence Becomes Ritual.