Saturday, October 15, 2016

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.


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