“Always wear lip gloss,”
my mother gently scolded me,
inching a tube filled with pink ooze
to my lips.

I wondered why I had to wear lip gloss
if I only talk to the cracks in the pavement.

I’ve never been great with conversation.

I think it’s because I wonder
if people are actually
listening to my voice,
or simply
waiting
to hear their own. 

I guess that’s why I’ve traded in glitter glue-tipped wands for
ballpoint
spears.

Mouths can no longer fire
bullets of
slander or dismissal,

I only bleed wasted ink.

I tell my mother
that I won’t wear
lip gloss
because it
all
dries
up
anyway.