Ajwa or Medjool?

my bathroom looks like a crime scene

half used bottles strewn across the counter,
crimson dripping down the drain,
the reflection in the mirror of that
shy, quiet, crooked smile as i contemplate my
over the counter how-to kit for getting away with murder

drop dead looks for 9.95 at your local drug store
i'll cover up my flaws with warpaint
draw their focus where i want the most attention
a flip of a tress, the strapless dress, the eyelashes
batting behind square frames that somehow make me hip

my bathroom looks like a battlefield

bits and pieces of discarded mental visions
strewn across the floor like malformed bodies
clawing their way to heaven at my closet door
kicked aside when they didn't provide that perfect look -
the semblance of low maintenance after hours of preparation.

i'll squeeze into my weekend warrior, evening uniform:
baby smooth legs raising up on too-high heels,
chest heaving in the dress that stops traffic-
the homegrown grays i wear to fight my blues
until johnny comes marching home.

my apartment looks like a nuclear blast site

so hot, i scorched my curtains; the paint burned off the wall.
not an inch of dust in sight, just in case that certain someone knocks
three times on the ceiling, or waits three minutes at the door
while i slip on the finishing touches, and no one likes
a girl that rushes to answer the first second you arrive.

a text to say they're on their way, and i feel the inner tigress rising;
knicks and knacks flee in terror to hide from the clicks and clacks
of my runway goddess strut down the tiles of my apartment,
pacing in my bedroom cut straight from better home and gardens
magazine and hoping i didn't get all gussied up for nothing yet again.