Maintenance Fees

The drugstore receipt is a foot long.

I’m paying for the privilege to disappear

under a layer of beige and rose,

buying back another hopeful year.

I kicked the heels off in the elevator.

There are red canyons dug into my skin,

the price of standing four inches taller

than the person I’ve actually been.

In the bathroom, the water runs gray.

The foundation melts into a muddy swirl,

clogging the drain with the expensive dirt

it takes to be a believable girl.