Poetry - Love

Most Nights

To be women
my mother said,
we must master
the skills of beauty
I would watch her
pop open lipstick and
smear her lips
red shut, then carefully
drape two strands
of pearls across her chest

She clung on my
father’s thick arm
shoulders back
hair swept into a tight knot
smiling skillfully
offering champagne
bubbling laughter
anything to keep him in her bed
most nights

They modeled what
I never wanted:
to become malleable
a ball of warm wax
over a man’s candlestick

but I’m still
slipping on eggshells
molding myself
into all the things
I thought he wanted