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Ruca be hot

 old-school cholas


The smell of the sulfur striking up hits the tile walls, hold just for a second, not too long.

Pucker up and blow.

No smoking in the girls room. No-no.

Hold the fire close, not too close. Don’t touch. Melt the point just till it shines,

Make it glide smoothlike over the eyelid, mark a seductive black line.

Straight razor blade, swiped from dad’s bathroom drawer, 80s cholas

No plastic, store-bought sharpener comes close.

Peel off the curls of wood, flakes the color of my skin.

We liked our little red sticks sharp and just a touch oozy. Not too hot or you’d burn your skin.

Soft and solid.

Lean up close to the mirror in the dim light,

Bend our Dittos jeans over the white porcelin,

Make the edge go up toward the brow just so.

Like Sophia Loren.

Dark hair feathered, rolled and fluffed.

Pop the red cap back on the stick and step back, cock the head to one side.

If mama wasn’t gonna see, take that sharp point and trace the edge of that beso to make it pop, just so.

Maybelline. Playing with fire.

Chola looking good. Ruca be hot.

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