Lipstick (an original poem)

I used to steal my mother’s lipstick,

use it to write on the walls,

to wound the soldiers in my GI Joe collection -

why they didn’t come with blood I never understood -

I knew they needed blood, belonged in blood;

I grew up watching Vietnam.

My mom took me along

always running to Mary Kay

buying more blood-red lipstick.

I didn’t understand why she needed

so much lipstick.

What was wrong with her own lips?

Didn’t Daddy want to kiss her?

Once, I tried the lipstick;

it made a mess;

I looked like a clown;

it did not taste like bubblegum.

I cried over world injustice -

a little girl understanding more about makeup

than the adults whose lipstick

fades like the sunset

over distant shores.