in red lipstick i make
note of the flowers
in meek girls’ hair,
when the un-stylish give it a try.
i am horrified behind my wine glass,
i am towering over party guests,
i don’t need high heels to be cruel.
we’ve trekked down bathurst and
climbed up a flight of stairs,
a sense of time travel wafts through the speakers,
1920’s jazz, toulouse paintings,
brass decor, brass in my blood.
the elite are here, the nobodies in the corner.
why is the inside of my head a grade school playground?
why am i sizing everyone up,
what do they have that i don’t?
i’m missing something, i’m quietly
knocking the others
down dead,
dead as my eyelined blue,
cloudy with judgement.
mid-party and i’ve
retreated into my bitch-skull…
i’m tired with my mask.
smiling at the elderly,
pouring them tea at the matinee.
crumbs of cookies displayed,
can’t i kill this cheerful barista?
i vomit her up at 2pm every saturday,
she is driving me crazy —
i spy the birthday woman,
looking too beautiful for her age,
soft and clear and gentler
than me,
her daughter’s age.
i melt into her arms and we
swap stories of running
ragged at school,
of pajama parties with casts of 90’s sitcoms
kept close by in their box sets.
she softens me to someone real,
someone flawed,
someone between silly and brilliant.
there is no one to apologize to,
no need to snap,
i shake my hair, i laugh,
no one sings happy birthday but the room still swings.
