This is the 40th time in 2 hours I’ve checked the mirror and tugged at my face.
This is my 39th orbit around the sun, and I can’t recall a day where I haven’t tugged at my face 40 times in 2 hours.
I try to make myself uncomfortable, so I can have an excuse to look in a mirror and tug at my face and remember that rouged cheeks mean health and I am in need of some health, if I am to keep going and reach my 40th orbit.
I couldn’t fathom the ache of the lens,
or the feel of my cheeks,
as I tug at the consequence.
There are no minor scars or aberrations.
They are marvelous trenches and tsunamis that engulf, when I’m sitting calmly eating dinner with my husband.
I’ve been told I am not a woman if I don’t know the contents of my purse.
Or if my hips haven’t birthed anything that screams.
So I look 40 times in 2 hours for these things,
and I find that the brute in my chest has an excess of screams and an excess of chapsticks in its purse cause it likes to taste itself come Spring.
I am repetitive grooming,
only now I’ve let my hair grow long and the mammal in me bows gently at my surrender.
I eat fruit and let juice fall over my breasts, they deserve all the sweetness that I never give.
Instead, I’ve sliced at their flesh, ripe mangoes gone ripe at my fingertips
Begged lovers to bite; take chunks off
display them as I see them, night after night/ a camouflaged sight