Autopygmalion

I’m tired of thinking. 

I long to taste the world with a kiss.

—Li-Young Lee, “Dreaming of Hair”

I let my hair grow, silky black

tresses resting on my cheeks, 

framing my face—that thin 

adorable sliver of skin—flowing

faster, down my shoulders, 

to my waist. In the mirror, 

I ogle my apparition, airbrush

out my imperfections, smile 

and smile a different way, 

until my smile makes sense. 

Lying down, my hair snakes 

softly around my arms, 

my waist, around my legs, 

between my teeth. Black 

strands noose my neck. 

Lipsticked pig sticks 

makeup on my face: 

shaking hands, jagged lines, 

wastebasket filled with plastic 

barely-empty bottles, tangled

up in knots of black hair.  

I return to the mirror, hoping

to fall in love for the first time.