what the label doesn’t mention is that
with rouge comes bone-white knuckles and a strangled reality:
saran-wrap and powdered lemonade,  
and bleach white soles shining through closed blinds
and closed doors that meant nothing until we begged of the key
and found the rooms to be empty--lit by only the fluorescents
and also the ceilings with the stars which I know now are made of plastic
dreams that dangle above
too many heads who have not shaken,
too many fingers glued together,
too many arms anchored
by all the silly things i should’ve buried along with
my listless apathy.