Lipstick Looks Better on the Wall


All we remember is the hurry, a rush of pink hieroglyphics—We are admiring the sunlight from the van window. Fast food tacos. The spit of Mountain Dew against the pavement. How long can we occupy this Wal-Mart? This cemetery? This lakeside? This blue, bright, room covered in Cosmos, our sketched mustaches? We count out thin, lacy bras on the carpet. We stack pants in towers. It's all a playground. A shallow pool. No matter how many times we move on, there will always be the flush of sugar down the toilet. The familiar and awkward letters on the bathroom stall.

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