I love you lipstick. Matte or glossy, shimmery and suade finished you are beautiful. You draw interest to my face. You add color and mosturize. Except when you don’t. Sometimes you dry. Sometimes you clump. Sometimes you smear, feather and run.
Sometimes you look amazing.
I don’t know enough about you.
Your associations have ranged broadly from rebellion to prostitute.
For me you bare war paint. Vivid. Red.
I love you lipstick, I’ll wear you even after I’m dead.