She woke up with sand in her bed,
the grains of a dream she had.
She woke up, sweet as cream today,
a smile standing to attention,
hope staining the dirty sheets.
The first thing she saw was her mirror,
and the reflection of her shadow,
so she knew that, surely, she was still there somewhere.
She supposes that she does things backwards,
an emotional acrobat in a twisted circus.
There are giggles and kittens shimmering on her skin
but, cut it, dig deeper, and see the sulphur slithering
over scars of doubt into holes of present tense pain.
She’s the most cheerful person I know.
She is pathetically proud of this deception.
She’s a woman.
Apparently, faking it is part of the job description.
Is it really awful that I’m too lazy to edit my poetry? Here’s another spontaneous recipe of words… that I would like to edit at some point!