My mother doesn’t understand why I like makeup so much. To be honest, I don’t know why either. I tried to write a poem that best depicts my attitude towards it.
We found religion behind
the makeup aisle with our knees
knelt, pressed into
the drugstore’s dirt floor
heads bowed together in solemn
over plastic bottles and lipstick bullets
haloed under burnt out fluorescents.
Our mothers called it witchcraft
our vanities the sites of idol worship
praying to arched brows and
lacquered lips for peace
between our bodies and ourselves.