too safely tucked under
too neatly folded skin,
as if it will never be worn again.
grow out of it,
it was said.
i might
i can
would i?
these embroidered butterflies on the white blouse
wings-
fluttering, putrid
thoughts
like a runaway train
no destination, and no hint of stopping
afraid that i'd spit out words i was
afraid to say
a spaghetti-strapped tank top
with nothing left under my sleeves
and calls were answered
and among echoes i lay
and try to recall who i was the day before
bold prints, too bold
you know what they say,
a leopard never changes its spots.
true, i wished.
and if i could catch these fleeting moments,
i would
and i would tell you
that it was real
in nothing i felt most comfortable
and nothing i felt
no one will stay
not even i.
drew maps to places i would bring no one to
and out of the sins committed
i wished someone plundered
these mounted trophies
i'd created and soon destroy
the belief that these goodnight kisses i find in the morning
were planted by the taxidermist
some days, i don't do my laundry.
i know it's simple, one two three.
instead, eight nine ten steps,
pick up this little black dress.
it's uncomfortable, but it's not.
let me please my demons once more.
after all,
they are the only ones i could speak to
after every one has went to bed.
depression is a little black dress i'd outgrown- too safely tucked under
too neatly folded skin, as if it will never be worn again.
grow out of it, it was said. i might. i would.
but i can't.