The
mascara I wore runs down my face,
in a
cancelled prayer,
for my
belief has been found untrue
and
already this new,
glamorous
skin is itching with disgrace.
Sweet
Vanity!
I called
on you to rescue me.
I tell you
now to abort this self
before I'm
discovered, blood-clotted and strange,
and
fatally dependent on dreams;
before I
am given a name.
Lately
prospects of a Heaven or Hell
rust
against my hands,
and the
sleek attraction of this place, here,
only
oxidizes the fear,
that I
have no great stories left to tell.