a contrite hedonist

Eggshells, white linen
these fragile things that
break if you squeeze
too hard or too quickly.

Instead of blowing bubbles
in my chocolate milk on
sunday sweet afternoons,

I inject air pockets into
my morning coffee, fixed with
half and half and
aspartame, as all the

dieting dying adults are
prone to do. I leave red lipstick
on the plastic rim, watching
the congregation with
kohled eyes.

I'm sorry that I've turned
into everything you didn't
want me to be. I can
only be myself, and I lay

down dark roots as
I grow with the trees.

And I smoke and I smoke
as I lay dying beneath the oak

tree; the very definition

of what you didn't want me
to be. I am a pagan, a
witch, a heathen.