hermosa sin maquillaje

my stepfather always used to speak about women in terms of natural beauty. his big thing was, you meet a chick, it takes her 45 minutes to get ready, what the fuck? or, you're at dinner, and she checks her make-up in the bathroom for a 1/2 an hour, so, what the fuck? or, you kiss her, and make-up comes off on your beard, what the fuck? was basically the argument. his idea of an ideal woman (or so i gathered in the early 90s) was one you could toss into the ocean, say, and would emerge the same, if not more beautiful, than before.

in my head, i apologized about all that to the beard a million or so times. i was akimbo, face full of sea stubble, foaming at the mouth. i had emerged from the waves ready for more! shameless in my wants. using all sorts of things to cover up my scales or the readiness on my breath. like drink, for nerves, or cigarettes, b/c i was waiting for you to come, and how they mask one they masked me, and words that weren't really my own they just came out came out came out came out, noises like we were under water and my sound was muffled, my sound was, mine, and suddenly there i was out on the corner, on two new feet, feigning like i knew...you were thrown out to drown too, once. you had scales too, once. you believed in two once, too. i know it like i know mine is water, and yours is air. i know it like one knows how long one can hold their breath, or like how one knows one shouldn't.