Bitter Bliss: A Poetry Collection

Turn on the light

The blinds are down, the door is shut

and my tears are flowing,

hot and wet, invisible in the shadows.

Weeping in the dark, all alone,

closet drafty and cold tile 

under my bare feet.

My face must be blotchy and red, 

eyes screwed up and hair a mess,

and I am glad the mirror reflects only black.

It hurts, it hurts, and I like it that way,

but I can keep it under control, usually.

Like now, when I get up,

open the door and flick on the light.

The room is bright, blindingly white,

and it shocks me silent for a moment.

I turn away from the mirror and sigh,

pushing my bangs out of my eyes.

I pull my cats onto my lap and rest,

leaning against the wall and closing my eyes.

It will be all right, because I can always

stand up and turn on the light.