She took my hand,
not for love,
but to keep it steady.
Her whisper sharper
than fluorescent light—
Don’t look nervous,
don’t look back.
The Kmart aisles were caves,
lipsticks stacked like bullets
waiting for mouths to fire them.
No glass cases—
just women testing shades
they couldn’t afford.
She slipped one tube into my pocket,
another into her bra,
her nails bitten raw, painted red.
Her breath thick with smoke,
a smile learned from hunger.
Walk casual, she said,
as if walking itself
were a crime we could perfect.
I felt the small heat
of stolen color against my thigh,
the way survival stains anyone
who still believes in fairy tales.
At the door, the greeter nodded,
all polyester and name tag,
and I learned how invisible
poverty can be—
how a mother teaches her son
not with lullabies,
but with quiet exits.
