I think you've covered up your sadness with
fancy perfume and that red lipstick you bought
in the 7th grade.
I think you erase each aspect of your personality
with cover-up and golden bangles,
and something else you read on the cover of
Cosmopolitan while you were waiting in line
at the grocery store.
I know you exiled every person who meant the
world to you because they began to know too much,
like how many times you brush your teeth a day
and what you pray for before you go to sleep.
You think I don't notice the way you look away
when you're surrounded by all your friends
and they're talking and laughing,
and you're "happy."
I think you smeared your red lipstick on
purpose because you knew I'd feel
too bad to leave you on your own
and I'd try to save you again.
Instead I wrote you a letter,
about why I think you're different,
and I taped it to your front door
and wrote your name on the front so only you would read.
So put on your red lipstick,
and gloss up your eyes again
because I am afraid you might be breaking,
and at least at one time those
very things held you
together.