Written as a string of orders, the poem reads like a beauty routine: powder, paint, line, dot. Each step is a small act of getting ready for the world. But the last line gives away what the routine is really for. The point of all this care is to make sure no one sees you cry.
The speaker seems to be talking to herself, or to anyone who has learned to cover up. The commands are short and flat, which makes them sound rehearsed, almost like a habit or a rule she was taught. "Keep 'em closed" and "cross your legs" push the idea further: stay quiet, stay contained, stay proper. Makeup becomes a mask, and looking put-together becomes a way of hiding hurt.
The mood is controlled and quietly sad. The neat rhythm and rhymes feel tidy on the surface, and that tidiness is exactly what the poem is questioning. Underneath it is loneliness and the pressure to look fine when you aren't.