My face looks muddy today.
Patchy.
Dryness and oil coincide to create the ***** complexion I regretfully view in a spotted mirror.
My ears hurt.
I listened to a poet today who soothed them
but they are still aching.

The screaming notes coming from your actions are ripping them to shreds.
Absurdly fast, syncopated fingers gibe on a guitar, making it cry out painfully.
You ran from her.

Crashing symbols crunch my tiny, helpless inner ear bones.
You took the cat, the mahogany bedroom dresser, the silver candle sticks that you will probably pawn
and sped off in your car.

We are neither in control nor completely naive of our actions, said the poet.

Yes, yes,

Put socks in my ears with your pretty words! and achieve the serenity in myself that I cannot accomplish myself.

Oh Soft cotton *****! Fill me to the brim and let me lay comfortable beside myself where I am usually so twitchy and restless.

I sigh audibly and return to a sunny day where
I am stopped, staring at a red light preparing to
to…
to what?

I realize I do not know what song the radio is singing,
What street I am.
I whip around to see if the dog is riding shotgun.

He is not.

Why am I in the car?
How did I get here?

Was I going to the store, was I leaving town? Going to mother’s house to sob crocodile tears into lace covered throw pillows and a rough, flour-dappled apron?

I just don’t know.
I cannothearmyselfthinkanymore.My ears hurt.