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
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