She is broken promises
piled up like plastic takeaway
containers. The bins stink
like hypocrisy and a million
dead fish screaming silently.
Excuses stain apologetic teeth in
shades of lost crimson, I suppose
sometimes the daysblendintonight
followed by another #094183 sunrise.
As green-eyed monster sinks deeper
into orange-pink sulci, she ferments
gram after gram of misdirected
resentment in saliva before swallowing
self whole. Leave still, this dark and
bottomless hole – name it stomach
rather than mind or soul.
Convince herself that she can quantify
abstract problems on scale and in mirror,
feed herself lie on top of lie until
young skin stretches from feigned
indifference to burdensome vanity.
Such has been the sous-chef’s choice
of day, month or life.
On the cusp of 22, find:
seasoned afflictions, boiled-down
superiority spiked with low self-esteem.
no guarantee who tomorrow will be
no worse or better than the woes of
seventeen ………………………….. $29.50