Like Sleeping Beauty

Too much work. Well, maybe it’s not work – that is,

the thing that seems too much. But rather an anxiety
which stabs you as it paints your fate: anticipates
whatever’s coming up with dread – which all appears
by some necessity embedded in, dependent on,

performing “life” just so: a bunch of blowsy verbiage,

you know: a means of obfuscating that hot fear which

spears you: yes, you took the bait and swallowed it –

now must adhere to its mandate which you will follow till

your sad unpalatable end. Oh dear! – such dreary

and cliché theatrics at a time like this! And all because

of one (you thought) unguarded kiss. Which, like 

the House of Usher, toppled all your boulders and your 

balustrades: made sure the vast uneasy castle of you 

fell. How well you know the reputation of large older

single women in the city: the psychic walls they are

supposed to hide behind because they aren’t pretty –

well, your walls were breached, a man had reached,

and kissed you. No one spoke. Like Sleeping Beauty

you awoke. Then he left. Something broke.

.