Lipstick Mountains Press

A boutique publisher of Arts & Letters & Ideas

The narratives of extraordinary women, the little black dress of women’s contemporary literature. 

When I was very young, I watched over                   
my mother. At four or five, I already knew 
the basics of taking care of, rather than being
cared for. I brought her saltine cracks 
for her morning sickness and she packed 
nothing for my morning snack. It was perfect. 
It was at that tender age that I began locking 
myself in the bathroom to play. I always 
played there then. I practiced speaking 
as I spoke to myself in the mirror. I sang 
in quiet echoes so I couldn’t hear anything. 
Moreover, they couldn’t hear me. 
Come find me. Hurt me. 
I lay down in the empty bathtub with all of my 
toys and I sang to my dolls. I reflected in the mirror. 
Someday I will be old enough to quietly leave.

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