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. ~