By Justine C. Tajonera
I don't know why it matters so much,
pink, cherry-flavored moisturizing pigment.
Just can't live without it. Ingrained like don't
sit with your legs apart and shave. It comes
with the foundation and the blush and the heels
and the smile. It comes with the hint of lavender
or orange blossom on the wrists, the pierced ears
at birth or at nine, later on there's the ring on the
left ring finger preferably with a stone. It doesn't
matter what my greatest work could be. I need some
child-bearing flushed lips and cheeks, I need the
perfect cut for my rump, I need a glow like I'm hot
but not with menopause. Aphrodite, remind me, when
I do not recognize myself anymore, of Shiva and Gaea.