For your seventh birthday, you asked for a shade
of lipstick so dangerous your mother blessed herself.

It was the color of hell, no, of a tamer kind of Lucifer.
The kind adorning the antagonist’s lips on your screen,

painted gingerly on her puckered mouth. Sometimes
pressed against an unmarked postcard, or smudging

the shirt collar of her nemesis’s lover, or featured
on the glossy pages of a magazine. You know the kind:

thick with a punch of perfume leaving you hurt
or dazzled with a corked-up migraine for days.

You wanted to be mysterious, praised. Practiced
raising a single eyebrow as you tested out the right tone

on your forearm. Stone-faced and regal. Imagined
the tea parties and fancy invitations coming your way.

Mall-Kiosk-Red. Horror-Movie-Red. Bullet-Hole-Red.
Posing-in-Front-of-the-Mirror-Red, the red of an all-night fire,

of an old suitcase leaving with your father. The red
many say you’re still too young for. Even after all these years.

Saint’s-Execution-Red. Not the same red of shame shown across
your family’s face. No. Runaway-Red. Pick-Up-Truck-Red.

Liquor-Store-Robbery-Red. The red of thousands of vessels coursing
through your body. A red bursting like the language of violence

you know so well. One-Night-Stand-Red. Hate-Crime-Red. A red staining
the tips of your fingers. Mouth-Watering-Red.

Star-Spangled-Banner-Red. Conversion-Therapy-Red.
The red you know will one day suit your lips just right

while getting yourself ready to leave this whole town in ashes.

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