If I'm itching inside my own skin,
If there's a bit of wild carrying on in,
around,
or perhaps behind
perhaps over, around, somewhere besides my eyes,
If I seem unseemingly unladylike today,
I'm sorry.
Scatterbrained? Surely, certainly, you've noticed.
If you know me, you know this.
I carry on, convincingly
all the while my mind careens away.
Dangerously, it careens away.
Away, attacking the menacingly mundane,
away to a place much more pleasant.
Plesently, myriad of melodrama unfold.
I tell myself stories untold.
I'm so sorry I'm scatterbrained, darling.
I do know.