Virgin Moon Phases

Oh, That's a Nice Pattern

I could stand just to look up forever, let my eyes get diluted, dizzy from perpetual memoria.
Maybe in just the right time those indentations gouged out of my eyes forced themselves to come forward, so very unlike my spirit.
Not so much of a coincidence of course, that the two most familiar faces could not meet mine. What used to be my pillow, swept out from underneath me, maybe because my breath smelled of Valium and Vodka, maybe because there was too much thought in my head.
The soft pretzels I piled over top of embarrassment beg for apology, and the salt stung where I bit hard; if I'd have known that my pride would be tested, I'd have played it up the flagpole and painted my face like someone strong who looks better, alone in a portrait.
One look tells me that all I will ever be is an apology from my mother I will rightly accept. Look at me, and I will cower for lack of defenses. Where I sweat for fear, you sweat out of contact, and this is our difference. I would cry and consent for lack of words, just to be as lonely as you are not. Just to skin myself and wear it inside out.