Do it everyday until it’s done to death. The quotidienne, Her charm never ends. She to me is a squadron of lipsticks, Reserves in sterile bullets. The near-uniform boxes quiver With each pull. Begging to remain Unused. Untouched. Unbothered. - Maybe I’m a lipstick, in that way. I wonder what number is under my feet? How my gloss wears — my shade shines And stain will fade away. I am lipstick in that way, a servile bullet.