The Makeup Artist

Minutes to midnight
A little girl twists up
a lipstick
that was
in her mother’s makeup box

and witch
looks pretty expensive
with its rich shade
peachy keen

She holds it
and feels her fingers
of the other hand
on her momma’s still face

She smoothly applies it
to her lips without waking her up
feeling a restless feeling
she calls happiness

In the backstage
She’s now a girl well acquainted
with the world of beauty
and a touch of creativity

She twists up a lipstick
dark shade of plum passion
as she smiles at the model
sitting on the chair
in the neon mirror

She listens intently with her friendly ear
As she sugarcoats her lips
smoothly, expertly
Empathy in her fingertips

She feels her fingers
on the model’s face
Warm plastic beauty
She’s disgusted by it
But her fake smile doesn’t falter

In the morgue
when she holds
in her arm
the smooth face of a corpse
first of five

and with the other hand
twists up and applies
black honey lipstick
to cold lips

she smiles her real smile
a vicious smile
as she again feels
that old restless feeling
she calls happiness

and before moving on
to the next one
she finishes by using
her creative fingers
to replace the frozen frown
on the dead lady’s face
by a frozen


I crept in my room to cry in the shade as the daylight faded away. As the day approached dusk my room started to flood, from the house’s west window; late afternoon sunlight made its way. I pulled both the blinds to keep the flood of sunshine at bay. Just then a harsh wind blew, the blinds swayed and there was a flock of blackbirds perched at my windowsill; wings black, eyes grey. The flock of blackbirds cawed their arrival like the harbinger of doom itself as the dusk deepened towards dark, it was time to pay for the mistakes I had made. I walked to the roof, where I had laid many nights and watched the stars, the blackbirds followed me.

waiting for a sign
six blackbirds sit on the roof
where I used to lay

they form a circle
I glance up before I leap
last stars I see tonight