Friday, February 5, 2010

self portrait in underwear

Tangled in a knotted nest of curls,

I am defeated by the cold, pale skin

of morning’s icy hands.

Her fingers wring my sleepy neck

as my eyes burst free from weighted prisons;

thrust into the world

like a stillborn child.

Are you the same silly girl

who left the coffee pot on?

Burnt coffee smells like sin

and wasted potential.

You can’t just put it in the dishwasher!

Now this morning’s cup of possibilities

tastes like yesterday’s failures.

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