Fuck, I messed up—Dee licks the tip of her finger
and smears it across my eye. I smell her spit,
its lunchbox comfort. Blink of cinnamon gum
and ethanol. The room pumps warm-blooded
and smears it across my eye. I smell her spit,
its lunchbox comfort. Blink of cinnamon gum
and ethanol. The room pumps warm-blooded
with music, beats heavy against the black-boxes
of our bodies as we glare at ourselves in the mirror,
pleased but unsmiling—I’d fuck me, Hannah says
as she scans herself from where she sits on the sink, gulping
box wine from a mug that reads IF YOU BRING ME
COFFEE YOU CAN GRAB MY ASS. The girls
laugh, Maria peering into a tiny round compact
near the window’s fading bluish light, Cam standing
in the tiled bathroom, Gigi at the princess vanity—
there was a tussle over this station—and Dee kneeling
on the carpet floor, moving between the full-length
and me. We gargle mouthwash with teary blackened
eyes, pluck brows mercilessly in half-outfits.
Can I borrow this? Mine’s shit. Does anyone
need a bronzer brush? Someone help me with my liner.
Let me use yours. You should try my new gloss—
All the while wine-sheened and buzzing with
the excitement of night’s approaching unknowns,
bottles crowding countertops like the aerial view
of a bustling city, hanging fog of half-burnt hair and powder.
of our bodies as we glare at ourselves in the mirror,
pleased but unsmiling—I’d fuck me, Hannah says
as she scans herself from where she sits on the sink, gulping
box wine from a mug that reads IF YOU BRING ME
COFFEE YOU CAN GRAB MY ASS. The girls
laugh, Maria peering into a tiny round compact
near the window’s fading bluish light, Cam standing
in the tiled bathroom, Gigi at the princess vanity—
there was a tussle over this station—and Dee kneeling
on the carpet floor, moving between the full-length
and me. We gargle mouthwash with teary blackened
eyes, pluck brows mercilessly in half-outfits.
Can I borrow this? Mine’s shit. Does anyone
need a bronzer brush? Someone help me with my liner.
Let me use yours. You should try my new gloss—
All the while wine-sheened and buzzing with
the excitement of night’s approaching unknowns,
bottles crowding countertops like the aerial view
of a bustling city, hanging fog of half-burnt hair and powder.
To think, for this, we’re ridiculed. I feel Dee’s
nose-breath on my lips, shimmery as summer asphalt,
and marvel at her contour makeup, her scientific precision,
optical phenomena. One row of fake lashes renders her
cyclopian, half-done. Our faces so close I imagine us
two droplets of water aching
nose-breath on my lips, shimmery as summer asphalt,
and marvel at her contour makeup, her scientific precision,
optical phenomena. One row of fake lashes renders her
cyclopian, half-done. Our faces so close I imagine us
two droplets of water aching
to touch; hydrogenic surface tension the only
lesson I remember from ninth-grade chemistry, years ago
when she painted my nails instead of listening to lectures
on all our world’s invisible magics.
So close I can see the sticky webs of her mascara,
tiny foundation-stuck hairs, tear ducts
like pink pearls. She’s drawn a white dot
for every point on the compass of her eyes—I ask her why.
lesson I remember from ninth-grade chemistry, years ago
when she painted my nails instead of listening to lectures
on all our world’s invisible magics.
So close I can see the sticky webs of her mascara,
tiny foundation-stuck hairs, tear ducts
like pink pearls. She’s drawn a white dot
for every point on the compass of her eyes—I ask her why.
It’s supposed to make people fall in love with you,
she says, her huge pupils darting to mine.
she says, her huge pupils darting to mine.
She touches an acrylic fingernail to my chin. Look up
for me, she whispers, pulling the baby-hairs
back from my scalp, biting her mauve-lined lip
before going in again, dipping
back into the liquid of us, fingerprints hot
stamps on my skin, stuck there even when she
lets go, leans back to survey her work, my face
for a moment
not mine but a painting, a thing she’s
dedicated to, a thing she calls hers.
for me, she whispers, pulling the baby-hairs
back from my scalp, biting her mauve-lined lip
before going in again, dipping
back into the liquid of us, fingerprints hot
stamps on my skin, stuck there even when she
lets go, leans back to survey her work, my face
for a moment
not mine but a painting, a thing she’s
dedicated to, a thing she calls hers.
Cora Schipa is a writer and poet pursuing an MFA at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. She is a poetry reader for Grist and the assistant managing editor of Crab Creek Review. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Cola Literary Review, Rust & Moth, The Shore, 3Elements, Gulf Stream, ONEART, Unbroken: Prose Poems, and elsewhere magazine, among others.
