Resting Bitch Face

Written by Taylor Byas

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“how did you get here? what trumped-up troupe of slave-ship sloop put you here on my doorstep in your nastiness.” 

—from Spill by Alexis Pauline Gumbs

Something about the set of my face says slave, cracks sharp in its stank and slits you uncomfortable. And what do you make of me again—in that gas station parking lot, in the grocery aisle and its fluorescence—when you tell me to smile for you? You too pretty to be frowning makes a fugitive of me, shutters me closed for your business. You even smooth-talk yourself into a lie, say smile and mean relax, 

mean open, 

mean peel back, 

mean lights, camera,

action, put on a show for me. Last time I smiled for a man my teeth sparked white in the dark of his bedroom, police lights in a rearview mirror. What could I afford with that currency besides his violence? Smiling has never bought me tenderness, never tendered me a love that let my face be bitch, and ain’t that what you gon’ call me anyways? Whether I thaw out for you or not, don’t this always end the same—the bright you coax from my mouth snuffed out as soon as I show it to you?