【by Reese San Diego】

I’m squeezing out dots of color onto my fingers and rubbing them into my skin. I follow the lines of my bones, bringing it up past the apples of my cheeks and toward the edges of my face (that’s what the graphic from google images said I should do). I look like a clown. My mother thinks I’m sunburnt. Maybe if I could peel it off like dead skin, shed it like a shell, I could be some new beautiful naturally flushed thing. I rub the color deeper and deeper into my skin until the motion feels more like wiping away than application. 

My face is warm and you’re telling me about your hometown. It’s sixty degrees outside and I cannot will my skin to cool. I am black pavement trapping heat. I am not wearing blush today. I hope you think I am.