Pink Lips

“You’ll grow into them,”

they said,

when I was small and my lips were large and pink.

I blamed them

for my clumsy speech and lazy tongue,

and the frustration of endless, “What did you say?”

●

If my lips were smaller, I reasoned,

if they were normal,

then I could speak without slowing my words to a crawl

like an infant,

leading others to believe I was slow,

when I wasn’t.

●

“She’s shy,” they would explain,

When I kept my pink lips shut—

but I wasn’t.

I had so much to say but it was easier,

so much easier,

to keep words sealed up and tucked in my throat

than to rage at my inability to communicate

and their inability to listen.

●

In time, my tongue grew clever,

my words became clear,

and my pink lips were no longer a source of pity

or reassurance that they were only temporary.

They were compared to movie stars by women.

They were given crude compliments by men.

Lipsticks and chapsticks and sticks with long needles

promised others that they, too, could have

big

pink

lips.

●

And now, I suppose, I’ve grown into them.

They don’t fumble my speech,

(perhaps they never did)

and I speak when I want to speak.

I dress them up,

occasionally,

with the color red,

and I quite like it.

●

But most days,

when it’s just me

and the man that I love,

I leave my lips pink,

And only think of them when they’re pressed into a kiss,

sighing against the softness

as he turns them back to red,

and words, I find,

are no longer necessary.