Hillary Smith-Maddern
IN PRAISE OF STICKY, PINK LIPGLOSS
1.
Sure, other girls smudge their faces
with soft, pink glitter, but I don’t
learn the intricacies until sophomore year.
I lean hard into the thick
black liner, heavy-hand the bruise
colored shadow. I know who this facade
is for and I’m ashamed for wanting those boys
to notice me, when all they ever see is
a walking fat joke. That spring,
I chop all my hair off. Knick
a tube of lip gloss from Claire’s. Apply it
like a newly learned diet tip.
2.
There are hours when I am not who I am
at all. 3 a.m. binges spent purging
vestiges of sex appeal.
These moments feel like finger painting
my own history, a crude, parsed-together
narrative, broken plots and eraser
marks. See — we are all born beautiful,
but you have not swanned until hallway
rejection has smeared your mascara.
3.
In line with my mother at Big Y. Teen Magazine
promises the cutest swimsuits ever, new ways to get
that guy, and quiz to know if he’s bud or boyfriend.
I pinch my stomach. Want the party hair tips to disguise
what I had learned along with my alphabet:
only certain bodies are lovable, worthy
of decoration. I pocket a fuchsia lipstick.
4.
My Name Is: Everywhere I Walk Is Runway.
My Name Is: I’m Feeling Myself.
My Name Is: My Mouth is the Sweetest Fruit to Ever Bruise You.
My Name Is: Your Approval is Cheap and I Am Expensive.
My Name Is: Sex Won’t Fix Me.
My Name Is: Someday I Might Love You With the Lights On.
My Name Is: My Body Is Mine.
5.
The way I’m going to tell this story is how it all started:
a girl and her mouth, armed and dangerous,
lush and glossy until the end.