A Poem About Your Lipstick

you’re always wearing lipstick. on purpose. you like the way it colors your face. your mother only wore hers for very special occasions. the same tube of soft pink lipstick every time. you, well, you are not like that. you have all the colors of a sunset in your makeup bag. the boys ask you questions like: is that for me? can I kiss you? can those lips be mine? and you remember when your mouth was just a mouth. not a target or a weapon or some kind of home for lost men. you continue wearing your lipstick. red. hot pink. deep red. violet. burgundy. blood red. blood orange. blood. where is the party? someone asks when you board the bus. you don’t smile. you don’t anything. you are the special occasion. you deserve more than one tube of soft pink smeared timidly across lips. you re-apply your blood red. you are a bruja now. you are the one that makes everyone in the novela cry. you look out the bus window. you wear victory so well. you slay baby, for yourself.