I

 

Mama bit her full bottom lip,

red from the lipstick

I knew she hated,

the lipstick Papa bought her.

I never understood why she wore it.

Especially when she scrubbed

my face raw after I

slashed a stroke

across my mouth.

I asked why and she said,

“It doesn’t suit you.

It doesn’t suit anyone.”

Then dabbed her own lips

with that

maddeningly deep

color.

 

II

 

There was another woman.

Papa never said it,

but I knew.

Mama knew,

though she held that

smile

that unnerved me.

It made me wonder

how that smile

didn’t split her down

the middle,

crack open her chest

and root out

the frayed ends

or self worth.

 

III

 

Now I do the same:

line with kohl the eyes

you say are too dark and shielded,

paint my edged smile in red.

I learned from Mama that

appearance is nine-tenths

of the battle.

I will smile,

but you may not like

the points of my teeth.

 

IV

 

I nuzzle your neck

and her scent lingers,

something alien,

something bright

like a brush of sun

after a night spent with me.

I will color you with my

lips; I will fight and

you will give in.

You will give up.

I will make sure of it.

 

V

 

My lips ache.

I can’t tell if the rouge

or the ruse of

loving you is

responsible.

I cut a smile at you

over my shoulder,

that crooked one

that sets your pulse

to fluttering.

It must be the color.

You could drown in it—

so you will.