the woman in the bucolic skirt says “draw 4 faces”

(i pull at my hair)

the 4 faces i find are ladies:

the first is static, statuesque

her face twists away from me in chalky charcoal

i forget to give her ear-holes

lungs dusty with bronchitis and

more to forget than she can remember

the second is stiff like catatonia

watercolors bleeding through the thin wilted page

she’s too boxy, and sad, and shiny, and pale

the third is haunted

gray pencil smeared with oily pastels

purplish-brown and sweaty yellow

the whites of her eyes are muddy

hair hollow

traction alopecia, saudade dysthymia

the fourth is ladylike

pencil on paper. proportional. unadorned.

the fifth face is mine

pinned to the wall with the other faces

adorned with chemtrails under the eyes

they split my likeness in two

utilitarian and biblical under my state college’s

hot studio lights