sunrise,
sunset.
the chill of the air crawls under my skin
like a newborn infant
innocent,
overthinking it,
wondering if something I did
would put an end to it.

the personas three,
three little girls
each in their different ways.

the first one in her puffy dresses,
covered in crayon-stained messes.
it was the one I used to know.
so small and helpless,
so happy and carefree
kept to herself
like a young turtle in its shell.
when I saw her in a puddle's reflection
of rainy days and gray skies,
I saw pure, untapped happiness.
a state of mind that no longer seems
attainable.

the personas three,
three little girls
each in their different ways.

the second girl showed anger.
like the flamed rage
of one thousand demons.
a dragon in her heart,
no filter in her mind
scorching the world and leaving it
with jet-black ashes.
she is the girl, in the rear-view mirror
that I fear will draw closer.
closer, so that I can feel the steam
of her troubled breath
rush past my shoulders.

the last was the one I've come to accept,
the one I choose when I am down.
sometimes I wish,
for a shadow of a moment
I was down for the count.
the number reached ten,
no coming back
and making those crayon-stained
messes,
nothing but torn little dresses
and when I look
in the bathroom mirror,
tears pour down her face
like the sorrows at the bottom
of the glass.
at the end of each puff of smoke,
the bitter taste after every pill,
and the pit in her heart
once filled with love,
is now fear and regret
doubt and insecurity,
all of which makes
little boys and girls,
men and women with curls,
genuinely upset.

the personas three.
three little girls.
each,
in their own
different,
perturbed
ways.