Coming back from the sleepover,
My brain is clogged with hair, cement,
the whining air conditioner,
Hollow yelling and cursing and
the pulse of drums.
Our faces caked in glitter, in
inks and powders,
Our faces marinating in
tocopheryl acetate, in
acrylate crosspolymer, in
Red #5.

In the soft light the approving click
of the camera,
We flatten ourselves into
flawless, facet-less creatures,
Into pixelated pouts
On the cold, uncaring monitor
For raking eyes.

We revel in our cow patties of rouge,
dashed on our cheeks,
Our satisfaction at being bright and young and tender,
Faces and bodies sweating,
limbs akimbo,
Hunched around our hearts.

When I get home I run to
the dog,
Sitting on the floor together,
I defrost and
feel the dog is the only
real and honest thing in the world.