I thought I was dead, but
I was only dreaming.
The red pigment stained my skin
And I thought I had bled myself dry.
But I don’t have even a little lipstick on the back of my hand when I wake,
So I put some on to mark the skin and
Let it smear as I go about my day.
I ask each lady I see for a kiss today
I see myself,
So the mirrors are covered in red and my kisses.
I ask to hold their hands instead
The reflections hold me tightly and
I don’t wish to ever be set free.
Oona Haskovec is a writer based in San Francisco, California. He writes about gender and tiny unimportant things. His work has been previously published with Synchronized Chaos, and K’in Literary Journal.