The ***** of my eyelids fall,
delicately dripping onto my cheekbones,
powdered, ripe with a pink flush,
matching the creamy pigment I smooth
between my lips before a cacophony
of laughter runs up my throat and out
my mouth. My lashes, black, have been curled
neatly in a spiral that follows my green irises,
my gaze landing on your hands—
but that’s not it.

Just know, I am more than a pretty face.
I am more than the picture you have in your head
of the clothes peeling off my body
like a cocoon—watch me morph—
in the dead of your blackness, calling sweetness
to the surface. I am more than this exaltation.
I am more than the late night phone calls
or the kisses on your cheek.
I am in the breath you lost when I smiled, and I

am in the scratches on your back, the fickle
end of the lock you latched. I am in the noise
that fuzzes in your head, the empty space
haunting you in your bed. I am more
than what you expected—
but that’s not it.

I am also the beat behind these words, the puddle
that gathers from the spill on the floor. I am the mind
that molds. I am the truth that finds. I am the beginning
of every bitter end. I am more than a pretty face.
I am the exhale at the end of the race. Here I am.
I am the kind of hurt that’s still sore, and one day
I am going to be so much more.