How Could I?

Quick preface, I found my jump drive from high school. I had totally forgotten about this story and am not sure where I was going with it. It is the study of one moment in 3 different points of view. 

How Could I?

Pretend I am interesting. Pretend you’re engrossed in me, my eyes catching yours and hold you, pulling you toward me like some siren on a rock, all glossy lips and flowing hair.

            Watch me. You know you want too. You have too. See the curve of my hips, dimples in my cheeks.

            Now, look away, quickly, before she catches you. Run your hand down her back, glossing over the hidden zipper but stopping before you reach the tulle that surrounds her waist like cooled lava, trapping her there.

            Smile. She’s entertaining, twirling fake hair around her fake fingers, whispering jokes in your ear for everyone to see. And of course they do.

            When she turns to speak to the gentleman beside her (who immediately take this opportunity to glance into her cleavage, pushed up high and proudly on display, like meat in a butcher shop) take a sip of the champagne clutched in your other hand. It’ll give you a headache later (it always does) but who truly cares?

            Now, should you risk glancing at me again? Perhaps no one will notice. You could simply look up and casually survey the room before catching my eye again. We could convey a lengthy conversation by simply batting our mutually full lashes and pursing our perfectly formed lips.

            You could do that.

            Instead, you reach for your wife’s hand, pull her away from the older gentleman who’s pacemaker is getting a workout and lead her to the dance floor. Place the champagne flute down on a table without her noticing; after all you’re not supposed to drink anymore.

            Twirl her around. You both are wonderful dancers.

            How could you dare be anything else?

            *

            “Doris Ray is getting fat.” Amelia says blankly, twirling a piece of hair around her long manicured finger.

            “Darling, she’s pregnant,” Roger, her husband replies, not bothering to look at her.

            “Oh, that’s such a vile sight. I don’t think people should be allowed out when they’re in her…condition.”

            “Of course not.”  He still doesn’t bother to look at her but Amelia is used to that. They are not the staring in deep into the eyes kind of couple. Once, someone said eyes were the windows to the soul but she doesn’t agree. Eyes are the stairs to the basement, just a step down into things you want to forget.

            “Waiter, can I have another drink?” Roger asks the strapping young man in the white dinner jacket who is passing by with a tray. It is piled high with used napkins, empty lipstick marked glasses and a few sad horderves. Amelia’s stomach rumbles at the sight of them, but she doesn’t notice. She is not the eating sort of woman.

            “You don’t need to drink dear. Remember what the doctor said?” She reminds him, her voice light and lilting, but at the same time adequately letting him know that she remembers exactly what the doctor said. Something around the lines of, “Your husband is a drunk, but a good drunk and a good man you’re lucky to have.”

            “Yes, darling. Nix the drink, sir,” Roger says to the waiter, while at the same time signaling him to go ahead and bring the drink anyway.

            Amelia closes her eyes.

            How could she do anything else?

            *

            We entered the room, me navigating Amelia like she's some show dog on parade. Her skirt rustles as we make our way down the stairs and her fingernails cut into me, even though the arms of my coat. She hates stairs, always has. Once when she was a child she fell down the set in her parents’ home, breaking her collarbone. Even now she has a scar there, small and curved, like a sickle.

            "You're doing fine." I whispered as we finally neared the last few steps.

            "Shush, smile!" she hisses at him from the corner of her mouth because we are being watched.

            When her heals finally touch the floor, Amelia goes slack with relief but only for a moment. Too soon, in my opinion, her back is straight and her face is set as she starts to mingle. I follow her lead , our roles reversing.

            "Roger, dear, can you go hang my wrap?" she asks pleasantly.

            "Of course," she hands me the midnight blue piece of gauze and I take it to the coat room, managing not to have stop and make conversation on the way. When I hand her shawl to the attendant, he gives me a look as if to say, my, my aren't you hen pecked? Instead, he said, "Thank you sir."

            Making my way back through the crowd I wasn't so lucky. Humphrey Ray stopped me in the middle of the room to discuss some business venture he wanted me to invest in, but like anyone Humphrey speaks too, I tuned him out. Instead I searched the room for Amelia.

            It didn't take long to find her. She was talking to some society marm, right beside the dance floor. She reached up to absentmindedly twirl a piece of hair around her fingers. I tried to catch her eye but she never looked up. Instead I caught Doris's. She blinked startled. Obviously she had been trying to get her husband’s attention but the old blow hard was to engrossed in me to notice anything. I smiled at Doris and then carefully pointed Humphrey in her direction. She blinked, startled, before turning to her husband.

            I made my way back to Amelia.

            After all, what else would I want to do?

Poetry of a TBI

    So this afternoon I found the journal I kept the spring semester in 2010 after my brain injury in the summer of 2009. I took two classes a the local community college, and a lot of the times I just wrote in my little journal. I don't let myself write in class anymore, and I kind of think that is why I write less now! I seem to really do it when I should be doing something else, but right now I am all about doing what I am supposed to in college. 

    But please enjoy a few of my brain injured poems/observations! 

Disclaimer: These poems have only been edited for clarity. This is pretty much straight from my (injured) brain

Algebraic Observations 

the truth about math 

math requires confidence 

girls who can do math 

don't swing their hips 

when they walk away.

they already know anyone who wants watch

is already watching 

there is no magic in math 

no fairies hiding between the pages 

it is just plain

pure

evil 

factor 

cross out 

that's how you do it 

/cancel/

there is no end 

so don't bother to begin 

and I thought you were dead 

(must you?) 

the difference of 2 squares 

is 2x + 4 

{I just want to be normal}

forget and be done with this 

hold, change, flip 

THAT DON'T FACTOR

After the Accident 

What I need after the accident:

blood thinner (plavix, 1 aspirin) 

some ditropan and a little Tylenol 

(no more ibuprofen) 

physical, occupational, speech 

(a little recreation)

I need:

socks in my bivalves 

and you to speak a little slower 

some more hair 

(or at least a bobby pin)

I want a nap 

and no more nurses 

watching me pee.

I need:

more breath support 

more of an attention span 

and my feeding tube back in

because it hurts too much out 

I want:

my nails painted 

and you to do it 

because my hands don't do what I say anymore 

maybe not ever 

Nonsense 

fiddle faddle 

flick- 

this can't be 

it. ding dong 

damn, broke 

a nail. a hammer 

a tack, a spot of glue

can't fix this so

please (don't) try.

fling, fly 

flung- 

this is 

it. rolling stops 

keep on going

and rolling on

the river can

be wet. hair 

should be cut.

you (can't) do 

tip, top 

tap-

this is that

not that is this 

mirrors (don't) break 

only reflect 

deflect, duck 

flies north 

(no one flies south) 

If Fish Flew

if fish flew 

light as a feather but stiff as a board 

slippery as serpents but twice as nice 

they glub, glum, glug by 

happy in their own worlds 

content to glide by 

their fins carefully brushing your cheek 

as soft as a kiss, but half as deadly.

if fish flew 

lines would have to be thrown up 

into loose air, catching on branches and planes.

Men would stand with their arms in the air 

waiting on something, anything that is no guarantee 

if fish flew. 

 

what a poem should be

    In my creative writing class this semester, I didn't really learn what a poem is. I mean, I did, but I also know that there is no finite definition (no matter what Ezra Pound would have you to believe). No, what I learned in creative writing is that I hate editing/making changes to poems I have already written. Poems I have done numerous drafts on never seem as good as those flashes on brilliance, one time and it's done poems.
    This poem is unedited. It would undoubtedly benefit from a few redrafts, but normally when I redraft the poems tend to lose their vibes. It has a few good lines in it, so maybe I will revisit some of them? (someday) (maybe)
   
   The prompt for the poem was  "Write a poem about the "ultimate" poem, or what a poem "should" do." 
   

 what a poem should do

is trip from your lips

words spinning on the page

popping, sizzling

a grease fire waiting to happen

or could it be a slow

lazy day, not a sunday morning

but a tuesday afternoon

when everyone knows

it should be productive

(but isn't)

what a poem should do

is matter and every word must

have meaning, must, must

must be necessary and tight

taught and vital

no slackers permitted

it should be clear

like crystal, or a supermodels skin.

or let it be murky, like old dishwater

bits of corn and the tips of knives

poking toward the surface

poems have the rhythm of sunday morning

front pew, or right up in the loft

all dressed in shiny violet robes

praising, and praising loud

so Jesus can hear

or rhythm less, no hint of rhyme

singing off key in the back row

following along, but always, always

always two beats behind

a poem should feel good

flowing through your fingertips

(you, yes, you

sitting pretty in you chair)

light and heavy

brushed off your chest, lips, eyes

some body part you might have

lifted out and thrown in the air

to matter to someone else now  

telling time

high school poem revisited

telling time

i’m shaking (another test
of nerves, faith, compatibility)
not for you or me but
perhaps for the both of us.



i’m shaking, a steady sneaker clad
mantra that moves the table
quick, jittery. you blink
“Stop you’re making me nervous.”
hands, like a clock’s thin fingers,
creep up from the six that is your lap
to the eleven of my knee.



please, let’s hold our breaths
cross our fingers and leap
away from these hard backed chairs.
cold floor, full of yellow flecked
half-formed memories, all cut short
before they could really begin.



(move on) to where we know
each other—like sometimes
you click your tongue,
only drink hot sprite,
and when you drive you tap
your index finger (long and knobby)
on the dash while traffic is congested
like your uncle Bernie’s heart.

Stella Wright

Mkay, this is the second half of the story I posted yesterday. New narrator and much heavier language/subject matter. Stress on the much. Oh, and I can't figure out how to indent on here. I type all of these up in documents and just copy/paste

Stella Wright

No one ever expects me to be the nice girl, and I'd hate to disappoint them.

“Holy, fucking shit,” I hear Bethy mutter to herself, her head between her legs, her brown hair cascading down like a waterfall onto the carpet. She's wearing jeans, because Beth doesn't really believe in anything else. Skirts are too girly and make her feel naked. Shorts are either (in her opinion) a) hooker short or b) terminal nerd long. She wore dresses until she tucked her underwear into a floral number, and that was the end of that.

The car ride with her little sister had been incredibly awkward, but we got through it. I played sick, slumping in my seat and resting my forehead against the window. Maryanne had rambled senselessly, but Beth had acted so fucking normal, no one ever would have guessed she had a positive pregnancy test in her back pocket. The aforementioned test had been hurled out the window moments after dropping Maryanne off at the massive church. When I tried to say something she just raised her hand, silencing me until we got behind her closed bedroom door in her empty house.

“Holy, holy motherfucking, goddamned shit.”

“Wow, okay, just let it all out,” I said, rubbing her back. I would normally get a kick out of Beth cursing so flagrantly, but I'm just a little stunned she said “goddamn”. Don't get me wrong, she could swear with the drunkest of sailor's, but goddamn is the sort of blasphemy that she doesn't touch.

“Daddy will kill me,” Beth moaned to the floor. “He really will... and y'know this might make Mama blink, or something. Oh God, I think I'm gonna be sick”

“Isn't it a little late in the day for morning sickness?”

When she lunges for me, I have to admit, I am totally unprepared. Beth shoots up so fast it doesn't even register in my brain until I am flat on my back across the bed. Her fists land across my belly as she forces me into the faded floral comforter covering her bed. This could be an all out brawl, but when I raise my hand to strike back, all I can think is “only white trash bitches hit pregnant girls”, and contrary to popular belief, I am not white trash. Off white, sure, but nothing about me is pure.

Beth is a sissy, so her attempted punches don't hurt. They stop as suddenly as they started, leaving me flat on the bed shaking, and her sitting against the wall shivering, even though the August sunlight streaming in from the large window has heated her room. This moment feels like it is shaking, like it is struggling not to collapse under the weight of itself.

“We're gonna get through this,” I say, propping myself up on my elbows. It sounded right, and like it was something she needs to hear in that moment, even though I am not entirely sure that we will.

And this is certainly a “we” situation, not as she/me deal. You know, like “she is knocked up, so let me slowly back away from this train wreck.” Beth and I are besties, formerly known as bffs but sticking an “ie” on the end makes it infinitely cuter. In all seriousness though, she is my total and complete soul mate. Not any of in a sexual way or in some weird religious sense. No, Beth knows me and knows what I think before I even think it myself. She and I came together over all the shit middle school throws at you, and various traumatic events that turned us both into the girls no one ever wanted to play with.

“Daddy'll kill me, Stella,” she said blankly, staring straight ahead.

“Don't be ridiculous! Sure, Frances will have a hissy fit—”

“I know you're not afraid of him but he'll fuck me over,” Beth interrupted, her voice growing more desperate as she continued, “He'll kick me out, or make Tim marry me!”

Sitting up completely, I try to touch her knee in a reassuring way, but she avoids my touch. “That's not gonna happen! You know no one can make you get married.”

“No, they'll just threaten and push and prod until it's the only thing to do!”

“Well, you know we could solve this in just a few minutes. Okay, it would take more than a few minutes, but we could still get this taken care of before anyone knows any different. You don't have to have a baby.” I know this is an issue we don't normally touch. Soul mates share everything, but sometimes it's just easier to avoid some things altogether.

“Yes I do. This is not up for argument, Stell.”

“I don't see how you can just close that door without even thinking about it!”

“You know I don't believe in abortion,” Beth whispers the word abortion. I'm not sure if it's just some holier than thou habit she's picked up or if she really is considering it a harsher swear word than all the others than have slipped out of her mouth lately.

“So you're saying it's like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy? Or are those things really just Jesus sneaking into your house to spread commercialization and steal your baby teeth?” Religion is right up there with abortion on the list of topics we avoid.

“You good and well know that it's not like that!” Beth says, her voice higher pitched than normal. “Please be serious. I think abortion is wrong. I think it would send me to hell.”

“You know, your theology is really starting to bug me. You can't cheery pick what you believe Beth! Aren't you already going to hell because you fucked Tim? Oh, and you swear...doesn't that mean you'll be heading straight to hell?” I am trying not to be loud, so everything comes out in the violent whisper.

“God forgave me for that. He loves me, but if I had an abortion it would just be too much.” Beth looks up as she talks, making me realize that she really believes this.

“Why would God not forgive you for having an abortion?” Her room is too small for this conversation, and I find myself pushing off the bed and getting up to pace restlessly.

In a lot of ways, Beth's room is more familiar to me than my own. Old green shag carpet covers the floor, leading up to plain white walls that she has covered with images cut out of magazines. Blank eyed girls and gruff guys cut from the pages of Cosmo stand with elephants from National Geographic marching over their hearts. The day bed is pushed against the wall with the door and directly across from that is her large window with the tattered white sheers. I'm never really sure why she even bothers with the curtains, because the light always shines straight through them anyway, especially now that there are so many tears in the white fabric.

This is the room of a girl, a girl trying to become a woman, but a girl all the same. This is not the bedroom of a mother. There is no room for a crib or one of those damn bouncy seats. Beth can barely stand to be around her ten year old sister, let alone an actual infant. Plus, she couldn't just lock a baby in the closet, the way we used to lock up Maryanne.

Her silence is louder than words. I can't help but ask her, “Bethy, why can't God forgive you for getting an abortion if he forgives you for fucking and swearing?”

“I don't expect you to understand,” she said, looking down at her hands. “But he wouldn't forgive me.”

“But why? Does God cherry pick too? All those times over the years you've dragged me to church, I remember that they said all sin was created equal. Why would God forgive you for straddling Tim's scrawny hips and doing the nasty, but not for having an abortion? For doing something that will make your life so much better!”

She shifts, sitting up straight for once. Her face is clear, because it seems like something inside of her has shifted. Like a chasm has opened up inside of her and she has pitched all of her emotions into the abyss. In the bathroom earlier, Beth reminded me of our “roles.” I am the wild one, the bad girl who rages. She is the strong, silent, dependable one. For a few minutes, it seemed like we were the ones shifting, we were going to become something other than ourselves. Now though, Beth is becoming herself again, and when she speaks, her voice is strong, determined.

“I know you think all of this is ridiculous. I know this is why we never talk about this, but Stella, God is real, and he is forgiving,” she said, preparing to rise from the bed.

“So why won't he just forgive you for having an abortion?”

Her face is still peaceful a serene, but her voice is not nearly as powerful. It is a weak thread, pulled too tight. In my head, I imagine her desperately clinging to it and trying to avoid that giant chasm that has opened up inside of her.

“For God to forgive you, for you to be squared away and even and shit, you have to be sorry for what you did. I don't think swearing is that big a deal, but GD is bad and I'm sorry I said it. The sex thing I'm sorry for that too. I try to be good.”

“So have an abortion and be sorry for that too!” I say, throwing my hands up in exasperation as she gets off the bed. “This is because you think it's a baby?”

“It's not a baby. This isn't about that. You have to be sorry about what you did, and if I had an abortion, without anyone ever knowing I was pregnant, without anyone finding out I had sex or if I never had to suffer, I wouldn't ever be sorry.” Her voice shook slightly, and the thread came close to breaking.

“Are you going to have this baby to just be a martyr?”

“I am going to have the baby because I don't know what else to do.”

Beth Daily

This is my baby. She has been with me since senior year at MSA and has gone through many (many) changes. She might be a novel when she grows up, but right now she is the first half of a short story for my portfolio.

Oh, and I curse a lot in this, or the characters curse a lot.

 Warning- coarse language, possibly offensive subject matter

Beth Daily

This is where we start... sort of like the dawn of time, but not as bright and with a lot less of a bang.

This story will not change you. I don't think it will teach you any lessons, except maybe this: even if you do everything right, even if you try hard to be a nice person, even if close your eyes when you pray and cover your mouth when you cough— something will come along and you will mess up. You will screw up, you will fuck up and you will fail. There isn't a thing you can do about it, so just get used to the idea.

This story will not change you, but just listen, because it changed me.

“Bethy, are you peeing or are you...well, you know!” my best friend Stella calls out, banging on the bathroom door. A small part inside of me wants to tell her to be quiet, to stop drawing attention to us in this moment, this second, but right now that small part is drowned out by the funnel of pure noise inside my head that is clogging my ears.
I am sitting on the toilet, and staring into the mirror on the wall beside me, examining my own reflection. Straight brown hair that is level with my shoulders, freckles dotting my cheeks. I am nondescript, tall, but not too tall, soft but not too chubby. My thighs are dimpled, but my ass doesn't shake like cottage cheese. My face is forgettable, but what is sitting on the counter in from of the mirror, is not.
A tiny white stick sits in a cup of my own urine on the vanity. It has been soaking longer than it should be because I have been too afraid to take it out of the glass and actually look at it. Maybe that's affecting it now. Maybe when you leave it in too long it's guaranteed to say you are pregnant. Maybe.
“Dammit, Beth, hurry up! I have to go!” Stella pleads outside the door, but her words do nothing to pull me away from this moment. I keep pondering the end of the thin white stick, and how I can almost see what it says. It almost makes my heart stop. You’d think something this important would be bigger, to match the size of its implications but I could crush this under my flip-flop if I wanted to. If I could make it go away, I would.
“Oh my god, I am going to piss on myself!” I can picture her outside the bathroom, the small blonde, banging on the door and drawing too much attention to herself. I am ready to yell back, to slip back into Beth Daily, the one who everyone thinks is sweet and upstanding. In truth though, the real Beth Daily, the one only Stella gets to see, would tell her friend to urinate on the carpet, but I catch sight of the pregnancy test on the counter and it is enough to silence me.
“You're kinda scaring me now,” she says quietly, rattling the door knob softly. I'm scaring myself, so truly, I am in no position to comfort her. I' m pretty sure that the noise in my ears is the sound of my life crashing down around me.
“I know about the test,” she whispers into the door, so maybe only I hear her. “Now are you going to let me in there, or and I going to have to go get big daddy Frances to take the door off the hinges?”
The thought of my 6'5 father, whom everyone but Stella calls Frank, marching up here and prying the door open makes me leap up from my perch on the toilet and fumble with the knob. Stella is leaning on the door, so when I open it, she comes flying inside. Her tiny frame slams into me, making me struggle to maintain my balance, as if I'm not feeling off kilter enough to begin with.
“Holy fuck Beth, you don't need to do shit like this!” she says righting herself. I lock the door, and when I turn around she is holding her arms out for a hug. Stepping into her embrace is hard because of the lack of space, but I am still glad for it. This comforting position is made all the more ridiculous by the vast difference in our height. I'm not crying, but this feels right, the first normal moment since I realized I should be waking up with blood in my panties. Since I bought the stupid test at Wallman's when Stella wasn't looking, and since I peed in the damn cup, getting more urine on my hands than in the container.
“You know you could have told me, Beth.I could have just gone up and bought the thing, although it was pretty entertaining to watch you sneak it up to the register wrapped in a Snuggie.”
“Well, you should have told me you knew!” I cry out, as loud as I dared. “Stella, I wanted you to know what was going on without having to say it!”
“I was trying to see where this was all going. I was trying to figure out why my best friend in the whole fucking world wouldn't tell me something like this.” Stella is propping on the counter, her hand dangerously close to the cup of urine.
I exhale long and slow before I respond. “I didn't want you to be disappointed in me.”
“You were worried about me being disappointed in you? Did you really think that Beth?” Stella asked, her eyes filled with hurt.
“I'm supposed to be the good girl, the sensible one in this relationship, remember? You're the one that gets to cry and yell and sleep around. I am the pillar of society.”
That's the way it's always been with us. She was the one in the sixth grade who always got in trouble for passing notes in class, and as we got older Stella was the one who got into fights with the skanks who had been sniffing around her flavor of the week. I'm the one that turned her homework in two days early, the girl that everyone always borrows pencils from because they knew I had extras. I'm the one who lost her virginity to the guy she had been dating since freshman year. I am not supposed to be the one that needs to buy a pregnancy test.
“We're more than what we're supposed to be. We're us, and we tell each other everything. So I'm going to forgive you for this, because I know you have been torturing yourself about this for... how long have you been late?”
Stella is looking at me, expecting me to answer her question, but I can't pull my eyes away from the cup on the counter. She repeats herself, a little firmer this time and I look down at my hands before replying. “For three weeks. I started to get worried when I didn't break out the week before I was supposed to get my period, and my boobs felt kinda tender to the touch, but that might have just been in my head. Last week, the next week, I didn't get my period, so that made me super nervous. That's when I bought the test, y'know just to be safe. When my period still didn't show up, I decided to take it.” Everything comes out in one jumbled mess, and I think she might have misunderstood because now she is starting to smile.
“Bethy, you're a week or so late?” Stella said, full out smiling. “That's not a big deal. That's pretty normal. You're just freaking out because you started to do it.”
“Stella, you look at it. I can't.”
We're soul mate sisters, so my urine doesn't faze her. She plucks the stick out of the cup, a smile still on her full lips. She is confident, and for just a minute I believe that she has the power to change something I had already glimpsed. Maybe I had seen it wrong, or maybe I just didn't know how to decode the pee stick.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit.”
“Beth? I need someone to take me to choir!” My little sister calls out, making both of us jump.
“Why can't Daddy take you?” I yell back, going on autopilot.
“He had to go to an emergency deacons meeting. I think it's about Mrs. Wade, the secretary. They've been saying she's been stealing the offering money,” she said, shifting outside the door.
“Maryanne, I can take you in a minute. Go wait in the car,” I say, my heart thumping loudly in my chest. Stella is standing there, dumb struck, mouthing “shit” over and over. She is not moving, so I shove her out of the way before I grab the glass. Thinking quickly, I dump it into the sink, the disgust not even registering. Still not really looking at the test, I pluck it out of the sink and shove it into my back pocket.
“What are y'all doing in there?” Maryanne asks, from outside the door.
“Stella thought she was going to throw up. She doesn't feel good.” I open the door and exit the bathroom, dragging Stella behind me.
Maryanne is standing close to the door. At 10, she is very nearly eye to eye with me (at 5'8), meaning there is a good chance that she's going to be even more of a freak than me. Her head has a red tint to it, while mine is just brown, brown as in boring. Her eyes are blue while mine are gray. For the most part, I like Maryanne, but right now I want to throttle her.
“Is she coming with us? She better not throw up on me!” Maryanne cries out, spinning on her heal and then leaves. As soon as I hear the screen door slam I whirl around to face Stella.
“I need you to breathe. You don't have to be you right now, but you need to not die. We are going to talk about this later, but don't you breathe a fucking word in front of Maryanne,” I say, gripping her shoulders.
“I'm breathing, but I have no idea how you are, let alone functioning!”
“It's flight or fight, and right now I'm flying,” I say as I hear Maryanne in the car outside honking. “We can fight after we drop her off.”
Stella blinked like she was waking up. “Bethy, I'm not going to fight you on this.”
I moved down the hall, hearing Maryanne honking again. I'm not sure why I am so calm either, but I know that freaking the fuck out isn't going to solve any problems. This isn't me, and this isn't right, but this is happening.
“I know, but I know you will fight with me.”

surrender

this is a poem prompt
it's also one of those poems that you write and you basically have no idea what it means
(well, you do but you don't)
I don't love it

surrender is imminent

embarrassment laughs in her face

wearing a pink taffeta ball gown

dancing across her cheeks

shame dances in the spotlight

waltzing with a woman in red lace

nobly clutching her hands

embarrassment chuckles in the hall

waving a long gray scarf

seductively swinging her hips

shame shouts from the corners

watching her glass break

then cleaning up the shards

embarrassment stands strong by the door

holding a top hat loosely in his hands

head bowed, eyes closed.

victory twirls alone in the center of the room

naked, her hair a waterfall down her back

losing her balance