Shrine

My wooden box of art supplies

gathers dust under my bed alongside

a collection of dirty dishes, and colonies

of unwashed underwear and socks.

Left-over-cereal-milk

thickens to yogurt surprisingly quick.

Mom says I’m a slob, but

it’s just that artistic temperament from

when I imagined I was a real artist.

Until fresh inspiration strikes

for a makeup station

inside my closet.

I run an extension cord for a light-up mirror

salvage a child-sized chair from the garage.

My studio complete,

I tuck myself behind

the curtain of clothes,

spend hours worshipping

at my aptly named vanity.

Desperate.

I sit. I stare.

I stare. I sit.

Brown eyes blink back underneath

brown bangs I cut too short. Again.

The crunch of scissors

cutting hair so satisfying,

the results repeatedly

unsettling.

Unfortunate habit,

that face is basic and boring,

wide forehead, scoop nose,

nice cheekbones—thanks Mom.

Smile is decent now the braces are off,

buckteeth half-tamed.

But

nope, not beautiful

my one possible path to

beautiful

is artfully applied cosmetics

Can’t you at least draw attention

from that fleshy double chin?

I collect a mass of dollar makeup

from the drugstore clearance bin,

sprinkle in Mom’s rejected colors,

organize everything

into my pink Caboodle.

My new art kit.