Bldg C Girls’ Restroom -Lisa Kanae First I suck on a menthol filter tip, Then release Kool, swirling soundless to Pacify the woman-child in the mirror, Whose sable wide-eyes Dart side to side. Maybeline lashes beat like rabbit’s breaths, Eyelids powdered baby-blue with a sponge-tipped wand. Bite the unsure lower-lip lacquered with A sticky cherry gloss. Am I perfect yet? Please remember me anyway. My black felt tip flaws the gray tiled blocks Arranged like the halls outside; single file, side-by-side. Straight paths lead to straight minds. Here. Straighten this— Lopsided hearts, anonymous threats, Crude poetry dedicated to the boy with the senior-prom Tuxedo That matched my pink polyester dress, Never to be worn again. Once white-gloved high at the elbows, these hands Will mark this wall well. Ink, dry before the bell rings, Before the shiny gowns and tasseled squares are worn. I peel the cigarette in the bone porcelain ashtray, Which was once a bathroom sink, Where water will wash away the ashes.