Maintenance

The 'Rosewater' tester left a streak across my thumb,

a long, pink smear that looks like I tripped

and caught my hand on the asphalt of the drive.

Forty-five minutes of staring at the tubes,

trying to find a version of myself that fits

into a tulle dress for a Saturday afternoon.

I got home and scrubbed until the skin went raw.

The trash can is full of cotton rounds

soaked in chemical citrus and red dye,

looking like a pile of used bandages.

It’s a lot of work to look like I haven't been

working at all.