Sometimes I wear lipstick even though I know it doesn't look so good on me.

Red
her lipstick painted on like
red and blushing cheeks or
roses red;
sinks into tiny lines,
divine,
but withering
like roses die.

Laughter stuck
behind the velvet ring encircling
applied by
trembling hand to hide the hurt.

Eyelashes bat mascara mattes,
above, below,
the withering nerves--
they strain to read, they strain
and bleed
the bitter salts
that whisper wounds unseen.


And when I look at her
I hate to know the best's behind,
stored in dainty laughter lines
that fill with red that's
run amuck
again.

I can't lift the weight of this silent thief
who kills that which it can't
bequeath
and I hate that I won't see her soul is crumbling...
I hate to watch her fingers numbing,
hear her cry--"My legs won't work."

The muscles clench in pain, constrained they wither
dry like sinew straps,
they crack
her voice like whips
before she sings.

And now she's ash and memory
blowing through the wind and free
and free and free she's free but now
it's me
who'll be
the one to do the
suffering.