Today was the first time I put on makeup in six days,
flinching as I anticipated the usual sting of misplaced liner.
I have to look good, though. After all,
how else do I make up for nearly a week of anesthesia?
There's nothing else i can do.
I lie on my back on dulled blue flannel
whispering a Hail Mary, one of many this week
and think of all the pointless, trivial things we shared.
You used to tell me that I was always brushing my teeth, and I smiled each time,
laughing through mouthfuls of blood and self-preservation.
How was your week? What's the weather like there? Are you thrilled for tomorrow? Do you remember what it felt like to fall asleep hearing me on the other side of the line?
I wanted to draw today, but notes on my clipboard were everywhere,
surrounding a graphite picture of Lisbeth Salander like a halo.
Notes to you, of course, all of them.
You used to say you liked my lips,
covering your own mouth
so I couldn't see your beautiful, dripping, two toned words.
My to-do list is filled with broken promises and shards of glass, but I swear,
I'll get around to it all some day.