She leans back,
head rested
head bumping up
and down
like
waterfalls that
sometimes
loose their
magical
glow and
get
confused.
Her sunglasses rest
restrain her glowing face
like the
headlights that
reflect from her
eyes
hidden from sight
she feels the
creases of the
plastic in
her cheeks
curling
impressions like
footprints on
the sand
into her
jawline
like kisses
she thinks
that hang
too long
on the
cusp of her
morning breath.
She had
searched
all morning
for the make up
that fit her
botched
skin tone
her arms had
been a
canvas of
experimental
design
like that
painting
she sometimes
pretends to
stare at
she is artist
she murmurs
as she
looks at
that vase
which
seems so
flat.
She
wears the
make up
not because
she wants to
be
or
feel
beautiful,
she does not want
the sunbeams
to shine
from under
her fingernails
or her
lips
to light up
like
christmas
baubels,
she coats
it as
penance
for a past
life
for the craggled
hag that
has no voice
in her
sternum
its oldened
fingers
tap on
her
waistline
like
measuring
utensils.
She wears
the make up
to
cover up
her
morning breath
the morning
sunlight
had
cast
a
brutal gleam
upon her
showing
all her
dark spots
she wears
make up
as
penance
for the
devilish thoughts
that bounce
like
raindrops
off her
steel roof
of the whispered
mercies
of the
voiceless
hag that
hangs in
her
noosed
throat
she wears
penance
like its
a beautiful
blush
like drifted
snow has
coated her
skin and
she is
now
destroyed
she covers
up the
crinkled
muesli
bar
hag that
sings
old
folk tales
in her
lips
the rogue
red
that
tastes like
his blood.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 5:50 AM UTC
She leans back,
head rested
head bumping up
and down
like
waterfalls that
sometimes
loose their
magical
glow and
get
confused.
Her sunglasses rest
restrain her glowing face
like the
headlights that
reflect from her
eyes
hidden from sight
she feels the
creases of the
plastic in
her cheeks
curling
impressions like
footprints on
the sand
into her
jawline
like kisses
she thinks
that hang
too long
on the
cusp of her
morning breath.
She had
searched
all morning
for the make up
that fit her
botched
skin tone
her arms had
been a
canvas of
experimental
design
like that
painting
she sometimes
pretends to
stare at
she is artist
she murmurs
as she
looks at
that vase
which
seems so
flat.
She
wears the
make up
not because
she wants to
be
or
feel
beautiful,
she does not want
the sunbeams
to shine
from under
her fingernails
or her
lips
to light up
like
christmas
baubels,
she coats
it as
penance
for a past
life
for the craggled
hag that
has no voice
in her
sternum
its oldened
fingers
tap on
her
waistline
like
measuring
utensils.
She wears
the make up
to
cover up
her
morning breath
the morning
sunlight
had
cast
a
brutal gleam
upon her
showing
all her
dark spots
she wears
make up
as
penance
for the
devilish thoughts
that bounce
like
raindrops
off her
steel roof
of the whispered
mercies
of the
voiceless
hag that
hangs in
her
noosed
throat
she wears
penance
like its
a beautiful
blush
like drifted
snow has
coated her
skin and
she is
now
destroyed
she covers
up the
crinkled
muesli
bar
hag that
sings
old
folk tales
in her
lips
the rogue
red
that
tastes like
his blood.