I’m a wilted rose in the ceramic vase I made. But that was a year and a half ago. My contacts dried up in January and it’ll be March tomorrow.
My hair is much less lustrious then it used to be, much too brown now.
My clothes are plainer than five years ago, and I don’t feel sexy
There’s a speck of water in my stem, but no one cares but me. Although maybe they do care and pity me, but won’t say anything because this is the life I’ve chosen.
But today I drove to the city with all the windows down. I let my hair loose and it flew around me with no gravity. It was warm so I smiled, and I felt 16 again.
But my spirit stopped when the car did. My hair didn’t dance, but turned mousy. Glasses pulled heavy on my brow. This isn’t me.
I’m evergreen, like pine. I’m a dance on the hands of time. And there on my mousy coat is a sheen that you’ve never seen. Yes, it stings. A sheen that brings a sting. A feeling thing thats meaning gets lost. It’s luster is muddled, but there. I know it’s there.
Greed made my face green.
The mirror was far from me.
This evil green monster came swirling around me.
A clear curtain transforming
an opaque barrier wall.
Replacing a kind face
with malice and gall.
Friend turned to enemy,
our love is at stake.
It’s mine, not yours,
not yours to take.
The yolk from the whites,
the church from state.
Like homeland from colonies
we were on the brink.
In a blink, a bat of an eye,
who I am began to fly by.
My sweetness soured
and whispered goodbye.
My soul gripped by Satan,
his hand fingering my chest.
Oh wretched sly snake prodding me to his nest.
I see you now, cretin,
there will be no mistake.
There will be no more sneaking
with your head on a stake.
it’s nearly impossible
We drove the big heavy truck to our new empty house.
Stepping inside we looked around and saw rooms for two stories that were white as can be. The word trepidation came to mind.
Then your mom (that’s me) anxiously decided to fill the white walls with color.
“What would make this house my home?” I asked myself.
When the idea came, my heart felt like a sun ray.
Out came the brushes, out came the paint. On the walls went the colors. “Beautiful!”
He came home (your dad) to find the walls awash with asplosh.
So we took the brushes and painted it white again. And I suppose that would be the day I died.
But of course that last part about painting isn’t true. All the walls are still white, but in my head I’ve already painted them. It was a beautiful idea for a wall, and having it look like a painting by Mondrian was unique and exciting. So with heart palpitating and clammy hands, I tried to explain, but my words never seem like enough when I’m saying them. His eyes widened and brow furrowed downward, you know, and I guess that’s when I really died.