Non fiction

 Red Lipstick

She smudges the foundation
from my face.
In thick, black, clumps she picks and
Pulls the mascara from my blotchy, swollen eyes, then
Mopping my delicate red lips,
Undressing my face for bed.
She reveals the imperfection of my complexion.

She stands. Still, wearing her Jezebel face:
A forever painted lady.
I am sitting.
Her eyes concrete
With mine:
Hollow tombs of kindness.

She keeps scrubbing,
Oblivious to the pain she inflicts,
Scoring truth and bitterness
Through the soft tissue of the makeup wipe.
I shiver.
She is tracing my lips now with her coarse fingernails.
Silences me.

I used to let her stroke my face,
Prepare it, tend to it,
As nights faded.
The only one I let see my truth:
The face behind the makeup.
She strips me bare to the core.

I will not wear red lipstick now.
My bare, cracked lips are all she will see.
Gone
Is my smile and
My friendship.
Removed.

I cannot wear red lipstick now:
She smeared it all over
Her
Face and stained
His.
Mine.

Lucy Smith