Some nights
it is me and a mirror.
Other nights it is me
and my own eyes starting back.
I’m telling you
there is a difference.

I put on
a show. Red
wax stain traced onto
worn out lips, dried
from teeth digging
fingers tugging, mouth
smiling. I draw it along
the curvature of cupid’s
bow and kiss myself.
It completes the look
with mascara resting under
eyes. Eye shadow blown
away by wind. Greased flyaways
my bangs and merging locks. I flip
my head back and run nails
through my scalp and smile.

Sigh.

My chin poses a secret.
Shoulders back, mimicking
hunched beasts. I gaze.
Sweaty curls fall and frame
my face. I am Jane
in those movies. The muse
that enchants people. Men
mostly. But also, in this moment,
me.

I prod my stomach
arch onto my toes. A duckling
of a ballerina. I gaze into
myself, see the neck, see
the neck. I breathe
like a swan. My hands hug
the swell of my face.
Full moon, full moon, I am
a garland of midnight poppy petals.

I rub oil into the cracks
of my face. The lipstick
stains me red. A blushing maiden
in a shower steamed room.
I step in to rest
under a gentle waterfall.

This is the least I can do for myself.