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Here's the stuff we found when you searched for "She wore makeup, thinking her deception was acceptable"

All the while he was talking she was thinking what his whiskers would feel like on the back of her neck
In a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful.
The emotion on her face was always the one that she was feeling in her heart
She was the prettiest, loveliest cat at the ball and she had upon her fine gilded whiskers.
She was thinking of a boy in California who had a couch and a job
She grew a little older, while he was telling her
Her innocence fell. She kicked at it some, frowned, and left it there because it was beautiful.
A dose of mystery slipped into her cocktail while she was in the ladies' room
She was so quiet that nobody heard her
Her self image was not the force field she imagined it to be
it was just as if she held her breath for 82 years
little pieces of her tragically poetic attempts at being loved that she was startlingly aware of, today
What the hell was she thinking?
She was never mine. I always shared her.
She was inside the music, with her eyes closed
She was most amazed by the obvious, like January and the fact that I could not possibly keep her.
She always was devious in her beauty
you never once told her how beautiful she was nor how much you truly loved her
She wore a bit more makeup than he generally liked
She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings.
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
She was steady
All he left her was alone
The girl didn't know if she was loved until he said yes.
She was cilantro, jalapeño, habanero. She was the hot plate you must not touch.
serene. She sips her tea
I would have attempted to draw her if she had stayed that way.
Sometimes the apathy she saw made her want to curl up and cry
He dreamt he was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty bed
she was waylaid by an octopus
She was too beautiful to be human
She was buttery. She was asking for it. She was delicious. Let's all give in.
I set my sister up with her husband, and all I got was this great dress and a trip to Hawaii
Despite her station, the quarry was never alone
She is a night of dark trees, but he who is not afraid of her darkness will find banks full of roses under her cypresses
She asked me if I loved her and I showed her the tattoo
She practices her speech
The portion of her face she allows me to see
She was watching me and I didn’t know it.
The House on the Island Where She Was Born
She was very beautiful. Y'know?
She was the cutest necromancer I ever did see
She didn't know what outside was anymore.
Because, perhaps she was cold
The Abridged Edition: She was to one side, he was to the other, an untested bridge between them
She plugs her tears in the way you'd keep a dam from breaking
You can't stop thinking of her: this is how you explained it, a proof of your being in love.
His ex-wife was so frigid, her clitoris was only the tip of the iceberg.
She didn't wave goodbye so much as slightly raise her hand
When she sleeps, is she not moving her legs aside for an unknown garrison?
does she need to touch her own face to know?
I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.
You put a hand on her hip, she permits it.
She crashed her car trying to avoid a butterfly
She keeps her lies everywhere
Her hair was seaweed and the Pacific wind sang
You can play with my ex-girlfriend, but treat her like the lady that she is.
I'm sorry I was speeding, officer, but I really have to get to the hospital
For a lawyer she was surprisingly like a child. Sometimes.
I was throwing around useless proverbs when all she needed was to be held and told that she was beautiful
She had become a mutton for punishment and he was a wolf
She was pain and pleasure all at once, wrapped up in needles and Ramones T-shirts
She was the seed of a strange tomorrow
When she was new, she rolled around the sky like a black umbrella blown by the wind
She was so tall, and I was so in love
She was like a candle in the wind: unreliable
She knew what she was doing
And when she came back she was nobody's wife
I don't remember what her name was so let's call her Doris
Seems I might have stolen the blue part of her rainbow, but all I really did was make it bigger, a way bigger blue
Where was her angel all those times the sky clouded over
She sat in virginal white, eyes closed, with only her face in rose
She Will Have Her Way: The Songs Of Tim & Neil Finn
Some nights, alone, he thinks of her, and some nights, alone, she thinks of him
She who leaves men as flaming wrecks in the ditch on the side of the road in her wake, yea, even submarines
if you fear spells, look away when she decides to share her hair with the wind.
Would you like to penetrate her shell, insinuating yourself among the pages of the books she is reading?
She is willing to attempt to retrieve the data. Go with her.
She Called in Her Soul to Come and See
She knows no truth except her own.
She is the sea. Above her, he is thunder.
Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt
She smokes. It wraps around her wrists and clings to her neck.
She said her father died of cancer in the sixties
She always confused her greys with white.
I gave her my heart, she tore it apart, and who gives a fart.
putting on her makeup
She, the Last Leviathan. She, the Station Agent. Chin on her Palm, she Watches Every Departure.
Her smile, thinking about you
she left her handwriting all over the calendar
Robert Lionel Fanthorpe fills up the word count in a science fiction novel: she brushed her teeth
She was locked in time
When she was bad
She was an intellectual prostitute, seducing me with profound truisms
She always was all tea and oranges that came all the way from China
She was so pleased to learn that she was right
Existentialism is that girlfriend who cheated on you. Postmodernism is who she was with.
She probably thought your first language was English; your real first language was Joyce
She was a Surrealist Woman, She was like a Figure in a Dream
I said I was sorry. Then she looked at me.
she was just the dry smell of gasoline
someday, when she will think back upon the time when she was as yet undishonored
I was tired. It was late. She was Russian.
The flowers smiled, but she was gone
To a girl who thought she was moving away
She was free
He was an ant on an ill-defined mission. She was the trapdoor spider of love.
She is and was
She said, while hugging a bowl of turnips close to her bosom
I haven't seen her in a month. She is still beautiful.
I remember when it was me who made her skin flush
She was feminine in the most displaced sense I had ever seen, a known quality refracted through stained glass windows.
She didn't write like Emily Dickinson, but she did live in a house overlooking a cemetery, and I guess he thought that was important.
I remember when it was me who made her toilet flush
Her name was Natalie
She was coming out as he was going in.
Outside the train station she was the only person wearing an Orange raincoat and a look of surprise
She thought about giving him her heart
She moved so easily all I could think of was sunlight
thinking about her
I was sure it was her
She is so beautiful, I gave up Nihilism for her
She ties regrets around her fingers like forget-me-knots
When she woke up, her hands were still dreaming
She opened her eyes and spoke in a very normal voice, just as if she were sane
He touched her once and she turned into a golden creature. He never touched her again.
An ocean away and here he was, seeping into her
At night, her eyes closed, she would
I don't think she even knows that I make her smile
I don't tell her these things, and she doesn't ask
She is the queen of accidental magic. Her used kleenexes, taken by the wind, become soulful ghosts.
She asked me to copy my poem into her notebook
Veronica loves manipulating her vagina until she explodes
the way she wears her weary
And she, with her beautiful words and such a fire burning inside
she had already found her party
She opened her eyes, looked at a world made entirely of white light
She does not take her trip. She does not shout out loud.
She Will Have Her Way
I told her I could read her mind, but she didn't believe me. I could tell.
why she makes her wishes at 7:07
She gets caught in the little world beneath her sheets
I don't like her because she won't like me
She calls him Sugarcane. He calls her Hurricane.
She found her bliss between the headphones, and pursed her lips.
Susan Goldman, who has cervical cancer, is partly thankful as she braces herself but changes her mind as she's sprayed with burning jet fuel.
That week with her was like drinking bubbles
Her perception of how gorgeous she is will be evident in her lack of movement during sex
Because I still love her, because I know she still loves me.
she lit her thumb on fire
She picked herself up, wiping away at her dignity
while she sleeps, i write myself into her life
A girl I know had her jaw wired shut, and she vomited.
She asked me to read her a poem
She disappeared as if he had only dreamed her
She bruised her knee. This is how we met.
She wears her failed relationships like a shield
she doesn't write, doesn't tell you stories, but somehow it's her words that spring to mind at those crucial, terrifying moments, and for that you are eternally grateful
That was what her hunger was like: mesmerizing, directed, floating like a public secret just under the cloud cover.
The sun was caught playing unashamedly in her auburn hair, setting our world on fire with giddiness
she gave her heart to a falling star
She flies with her own wings
All that was left of her was a damp handkerchief
It happened to everyone else; she swore it wouldn't to her
there was more poetry in her shopping lists than in any of my rhymes
making certain he was touching her
She nicknamed her vagina "Crusty"
I got the feeling the Fairy Council was mad at me when the president knocked over her coffee to get a better grip on my neck
i gave her my heart. she gave me a pen.
They walk around her like she is in danger of breaking
She does not rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch
piano outside in the snow. and she was spinning
She dreamt she was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty field
"He was a terrible man," she sobbed, between bites of alimony
He stretched out his arms but she was not there
Jessica, too tall but still lovely, was not sure she would or should drop the whale
Her grief is still too young to behave itself, so she never lets it out
When that cow would walk it was like she was dancing
I don't think I was rude to her, just cold and curt
Fast-talking career gal who thought she was one of the boys

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