~
alone and an imposter,
deep in syndrome.
she absorbs the frost of seasonal ghosts
and hopeless feelings
of death and darkness.
she only shows one side of her every time.
she calls a random number
from a bar in the middle of the night,
seeking to confess
or find solace in the voice of a stranger.
but any stranger might just happen to be
a lie detector.
still she lays bare all the duplicity
and fragmentation of self:
prescription bottles with two different names,
elaborate façades in Los Angeles
and in New York,
so complicated she creates
something she calls the lie box.
inside her purse there's a collection
of file cards. "I tell so many lies," she says.
"I have to write them down and keep them
in a box so I can keep them straight."
alone she waits for either
sweet apricity or identikit:
each a memento of her faces.
~