You might glance at me
and never imagine
certain things about me—
like how at home in the dark
I bite my cuticles
nibble chocolate in my closet,
while nursing a glass of chardonnay,
and collect unusual shoes
beside antique typewriters.
You might also not notice
the many facets of my blues,
hidden in the mirrors
of my mind, and hardly seen
on creases of my face
braided into my ruminations
about our universe during these
moments when all I can do
is create dark poems
which hopefully one day
will evaporate into happy tears,
as I drip calming chemicals under
my shrived aged crone tongue
and spend all my days
healing from glances you never shared.
