geisha

she paints her lips the color of her mood. fire, ice, rosy, nude. she desperately conceals her shattered soul by sweeping cream under her eyes, veins that saw night to day. she waves her magic wand to create an arch over her brows, extending, in the process, what is short, then creates a shadow on her nosebridge to elongate a stubby nose. her lids are lined with kohl, to emphasize her almond eyes that sell her soul. finally, she pats the powder that will put all of the pieces together to create her daily mask. it is a routine, to prepare for a performance that she herself admits to fail to perform well, but performs nevertheless. she steps out of her small compartment that hides her ritual, to dance her intricate dance, to smile the effort-ful smile, to charm clients to their feet. she teases, she imposes, she remains firm despite trembly knees.

she is not allowed to weep, all the more love. beneath the beautiful face she grips her heart as tight as the knot of an invisible kimono sash to maintain her poise close to icy-ness. she is quaint but unique, she is tender yet harsh. she is broken, but continues to pirouette along with the dizzying fever of the life she had to live, a life she did not even want.

she learns to live with abandonment, of numerous lovers who failed to see through her pale face. she learns to be alone, because no man has fit the role to join her in dance, to hold her fingers tight as the world and her fit spin her faster. no man has given her a dip but did not let go of her arching back. her back has grown callouses of these transient men letting her fall at the climax of the passionate song. her neck cranes for a warm soul still, her eyes lighting up at sweet murmurs of promises.

but she has learned. she can kiss with a fire that is devoid of emotion, she has learned of crushing embraces that do not need but want, and realized she can live with aimless intimacy of strangers that tug her hair and grip her with viselike roughness.

she is a geisha.