Warpaint

My red lipstick

is a relic of a long-ago trip to Sephora with my mama, who wished I would wear it.
is French and smells like the grown-up sophistication of my music teacher.
is going with me everywhere in my purse.
is a special treat for freshman banquets.
is mercifully not there for my first kiss.
is mercifully not there when I drink gin (poured by the man who raped me) for the first time.
is not a invitation to kiss a slut (to the man who raped me.)
is slipping off my lips because I'm crying silently.
is not enough to protect me.

My red lipstick

is packed away in a drawer.
is not getting the fresh air and sunshine it needs . . . on my lips.
is an irritating reminder of when I felt like a person.
is gonna say, fuck it, let's wear red lipstick to Latin class.
is nervous about first dates, but hides it well.
is smiling more often.
is going to see "The Book of Mormon" at the Kennedy Center.
is going to be ok, Sean, if you kiss me lightly.
is coming right off, Sean, as quickly as my clothes, as we make love with everything we can.
is running low.
is too expensive for me to replace on a college student's budget.
is not just a pretty little thing.

My red lipstick

is Warpaint.