By: Ashleigh Cheshire - Mar 10, 2022
As if she is going to snap, she sheds her party dress
To write fiction in her underclothes;
To unwit the phantom that keeps her from speaking,
A fix to feel rational and less plain.
Her mirror stares back as she trembles in the middle of her sentence.
She wants to read about herself
But she has yet to hear from her secrets, the intuitive ones.
It is a sickness and a punishment to not master the self.
She makes wagers in earnest as to what thoughts
might be present beyond her edged rituals of self-containment.
Go on. You might like what you create, Perhaps
(Your pseudonym can be Perhaps)
If you do it simply. You worship
Others’ lines of dialogue for those funny feelings
That poise you to be under the influence
Of enlightenment and entertainment.