Wig in a Box

I have nothing. This was shown to me in obscene Technicolor recently. It’s even worse when something is put in front of you then its gone. Then it’s the same as before, but you can’t fake it for some reason. You can’t live in the ignorance that you were wrong or crazy and be fine in that place like before. I don’t like disclosure because I always want more, but I rarely get what I want.

I set my life up this way.

I feel like every distraction has been taken away and I’m left alone and naked. I can’t hide. I’m exposed and judged. And I’m hanging my head low.

I’m angry. I give sideways glances that turn men into stone. I’m unable to write complex sentences. Not that I did much of that.

I’m a housewife outta Pozac. I’m a smiling image of Andrea Yates surrounded by a brood of children. I am a single faithful Christian woman sitting in the front row with a bible on my lap. I am a drag queen at dawn walking home, with cracked make-up and a lopsided wig. I’m Paris Hilton as she turns on the lights in her apartment, puts her keys down and looks in the mirror.

I am empty and hollow, but aren’t we all?