The date at 6. The clock at 5. Everyone waiting for me to arrive like festivities barred behind brittle little braces and I’m the Straw that breaks its back. I want to be there. I want more time with you all. But painful is the prodding that produces this person to patiently mosey around from my private cove. The lines on the clock face tick lines on my face, and all I hear is –
My private cove where my actions are my own and not the production of string pulls on my marionette. My door like scissors that cut me loose into my own sanctuary. I drop my masquerade in a jar by the door and may work on my dreams in peace. And pieces they become for two eyes of my own for I share them with no one; not for my sake, I just wear a particular prescription. My farsighted lenses I paint over with roses save me from the Grims that speak with no filter. So I stay here with myself. I lie in bed and let my aspirations float up into the ceiling fan – and pieces they become.