#spilled things

It was a nice dream, this small reminder of how things used to be. A friendship that could never be stolen, something so precious it could not be misplaced. But as I said before, it was a nice little dream. And like Cinderella, it all came undone at the stroke of midnight, or in my case, the stroke of 9:40 at night. Once more, unlike Cinderella, there will not be a search party.

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{performance piece}

It's a stupid Monday afternoon and I'm prob'ly the only fucker in a 20-mile radius  with a pasty grin plastered across my face, flashing at everyone that passes by.

I hate those smiles. 

Sometimes I want to break into a glorious Indian accent, ditch this stupid sweater and don something that's wonderfully green in light cotton. (Never mind that I'll freeze to death if I leave this building.)

I need more plants in my life. And cats: there can never be enough cats. I need an elixir. an elixir that'll straighten out my shriveling, hunched figure and get rid of the thick fog that always seems to hang around at the base of my throat,  Two-thirds of the breaths I take are sighs and this paragraph is full of clichés- I don't know when to smile anymore; my stage manager snorts cocaine in secret and forgets all the cues. 

It's been awhile since I've looked up at the night sky. Not just to check for clouds, but to find    my    breath    again only to have it taken away by the entirety of the night sky. 

Sometimes I take my glasses off so I can't see all the faces that float by. Sometimes I lie in bed, and feel exactly like a glass of spilled milk.

Sometimes, when I stop wearing my shame and pull my sleeves all the way up, I feel truly naked.