Structural Integrity

The earring back made a tiny, tin sound

before it vanished down the silver drain.

I am standing in the light of the vanity

trying to paint a version of myself

that doesn't look like it’s about to break.

There is a run in my stockings already,

starting at the ankle like a lightning bolt

ripping through the nylon and the skin.

It costs twenty dollars to look this fragile,

and an hour of holding my breath in the mirror.

I check the hinge of my jaw for tension.

I check the hairspray for any stray wind.

By the time I walk through the chapel doors,

I will be a monument of sheer effort,

held together by wire and a desperate hope

that nobody looks at me too closely.