It’s another cloudy day in my head.
All the emotional sunshine
is fading into photographs.
And I realise I don’t have a camera
I lost a phone-call last night.
I pretend I dropped it.
I soaked it in self-pity.
If no one can reach me,
then I can pretend that no one understands.
I can hear it ringing now.
I wring the notes in my head;
problems that dried long ago.
Big girls don’t cry
but I am only little.
As my tan fades,
the freckles of my imperfections
are seeping in;
Stains that were invisible
when I was wet with hope.
Suddenly there is too much of me.
Inside, there’s not enough.
There’s something sad about opening a bottle of decent whiskey
to placate the mouth that cannot move to explain.
You don’t have to explain, just talk, and I’ll understand,
but how can I when
I don’t understand the shapes of my thoughts?
They are shadows behind a heavy mist.
I don’t know what they look like;
I can’t draw them out for you in words.
I’m biting down on the nails
that scratched you up yesterday.
I am an empty bottle of whipped cream.
This is the only explanation I have.