Lipstick, Heels and Pancakes

high heels, blazer, angled bob

finally wearing lipstick!

sweats, dirty hair in a bun

seven assignments on canvas.

freezing winters, so i pull off

my jacket, but the hole in my

sleeve reminds me of my mom

and i’m supposed to be an adult

but i'm stuck with the heart of 

a child, and i’m supposed to 

balance in high heels i’ve 

never worn while impressing

the world with my walk. 

i tripped. expecting not to,

i cried just like when i flipped

over the handlebars, training

wheels detached, my bottom

lip bleeding and swelling

and now my lipstick doesn’t 

look good. oh but it’s the

quarter system so you can’t

stop. 

i’ve tried and i can’t 

make perfect pancakes. 

adding the boxed mix

to the bowl first, with

a splash of milk, but no!

too much milk and now

the batter is too liquidy 

and the determined 

child-sized heart

standing on a foldable

green chair to reach

the countertop, adds

flour and they are too 

clumpy so more milk!

i add more flour

i add more milk

i add more of my heart

i add more flour

i add more expectation

i add more milk

i add more failures

i add more flour

i add more pressure

i add more weight on my pillow

i add more flour

i add more alarms to my phone

i add more milk

i add more milk

now i have too much

batter and no stove.

wait but im in college

i wear lipstick, i have heels

i can reach the countertop.

but i don’t like perfect pancakes,

there is a subtle peace

in the misshapen circles

from where i began.