On the night of senior prom, we will
splash cold water onto our faces like
alarm clocks and smear liquefied
Photoshop over our noses. We will
dust our pores with powder perfection,
brush a chalky pink flirt on the apples
of our cheeks, comb eyelashes stiff
with charcoal warnings, clamping with
metal until they are an obedient fringe.
Nash will execute some kind of voodoo
magic on my hair and repeatedly tell me
to stop wiggling. Brenna will run around
with safety pins and a tiny sewing kit.
Alexa will show up late as hell and
strikingly resemble Christina Aguilera.
Inevitably, Haley will yell at her mother
while her mother solicits everyone to try
her cream-cheese infused strawberries.
I will pose on the stone patio with posture
that has taken me four years to accumulate.
I will wear a dress that my mom thinks says
too much about me but I will wear it anyways
because I know dresses cannot speak. A boy
will rest his hands on my hips and I will smile
and he will smile and his parents will take our
picture because my parents will probably not
be there. I will get in a minivan with the only
people who have seen my hearts blooper reel,
the deleted scenes, the forgotten lines, and
stayed. At dinner, we will press our napkins
into our laps and laugh and laugh and laugh
because we are in high school
and everything
is so funny.