Beautiful Woman Leanna Kucinski
I pour hot wax over the stubble on my stretched out leg, in the hope that a man will drag his fingertips over the smooth skin, press down hard enough to leave a mark of purple swirls that spread out like the wings of a common butterfly. It doesn’t matter which man, as long as he calls his mother, calls me his baby. I rip off the wax, wince at the sweet sting of red on skin, now I am beautiful, ready to step into the high heels from the thrift store that opened on Second Street. Heels another woman has worn. I think a lot about the owner of the red opened-toed shoes. I wonder if she played her part, properly dressed and behaved. Does she keep pepper spray in her purse? Or maybe she trades in her heels, smacks her gum to the world, watches as her body hair grows like a vine, tangled and twisting up her thighs, as her stubble turns her into a wild boar.
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