Smears across the back of my hand,
Down one of my fingers in grill lines,
Like i've put my hand on thin metal gauze heated
Out of shape from one too many bunsen burners
In GCSE Chemistry classes. Melted lipstick gauze.
It's a new product from 'Loreal'. "Test it on your hand"
The sales-lady blabbers, "It would really suit you Ma'am!"
She smiles convincingly. As if she believes the
Colour of faith is 'Perfect Peach'. So I smear it across my
Skin in narrow, painful stripes.
I can't get it off. It was semi-permanent lipstick,
Painted on delicately with a sharp knife-edge
Or bent paperclip spike. "I'm a cutter with lipstick," I say,
To which the sales-lady replies, "Perhaps you'll be after
'Blood Rose' then?" Soft words with a sarcastic smile.
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