Don’t you want to believe
it — with just the pluck
of an eyebrow or the clip
of a rogue cuticle
you too could be new again?
Beauty is the self’s
sneakiest assassin, slipping
in through the unlocked door
of desire, slashing tomorrow’s
throat with its shiny switchblade.
I make the hair appointment,
get the fillers, say I love you
I love you like love is a soft
pillow held over the face.
I don’t hate myself, I
hate the idea that I might
miss out on all the selves
I would have fun being.
I bleach my upper lip and
blanch my belief in God,
pierce a second hole into
my lobe and learn to love
listening to the rank bagpipes
of my mother’s pitbull’s
breath. Why tether yourself
to one body when you
can have a walk-in closet
of potential? Why
settle for timelessness when
you can tear each self
like a cheap dress and feel
the world is one
sequin on the ballgown
of the universe.
My infinity: try again
and try again. When I apply
mascara in the mirror
I open my mouth.
— LEXI PELLE
Lexi Pelle lives in Randolph, New Jersey, with her two dogs. She was the winner of the 2022 Jack McCarthy Book prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Ninth Letter, One Art, Sucarnochee Review, and Zenaida. Her debut book, Let Go With The Lights On, will be released in May.