My Make-Up

Every time you ring my doorbell,
deliberately, impatiently,
my make-up comes tumbling out.
My hands are fumbling around.
I cling to the case
that's supposed to hold it all in.
I wasn't expecting you
so early.  You don't wait for an answer,

You walk right in.

And every time you come,
you announce your arrival
so powerfully. You fill my empty rooms,
with your smell, and your voice;
with your "Let's go, Baby," but
I'm not ready yet. Just a minute,
please. My face just spilled on the floor.
Can you wait in the other room?

You're not supposed to be here
until seven. You know,
with you, there are no rules.
I'll just compose this face quickly.
I've lost my color, to stain these cheeks,
my pencil, to draw
attention to these eyes;
to draw you in, to be sure
you see me, if I choose to cry.

Everything's scattered, or broken,
on the floor.  Plastic cases,
and powders, and liquids, and creams.
Red lipstick that gives this face a mouth,
to speak, when you're around.
Red lipstick so demanding, it shouts -
but it's the only way I know,
to get you to listen.

You're here, and my make-up
is sprawled out on the floor.
52 pick-up.
No order, no real rules -
just a mess, just some parts -
an eye here, a mouth there.
But it's me, it's how you see me.
I'll put them all together for you.
Don't look yet.  You're early.
I'm still not ready.