I tug at my hair
sure the henna's worn off after
a week
& my grey shows
I tug at my skirt
sure all the wrinkles show after
I wore it on the train
& my stupidness unravels
my carefully prepared
I pull at my skin, my lips
sure all I show
resews as a lumpy
imperfect collection
a fat, acny teen in broken heels
and maternity dresses
one lazy eye
and a diseased heart
too stupid to give up
but far far overdue
there's no one to blame
for my tears
and rough edges
no one left to rant or scream at
and my tears are worth more
there is just me
in this quiet, terrifyingly
still place
me
my rough edges
and the fine
fine
hope of healing
