You see them in bars,
Pretty and unattractive alike,
Caught up in what it means
To be "woman" as they spit
out smoke rings and nurse
Bud-Lights laced with vodka.
Two times she was married,
Once a lady, now soured
Of spent up nights
In the back of abandoned cars,
Love letters and words lost on nothingness,
They were all lies anyway.
There sits another, dressed in
The disease of "singleton,"
It wraps delicately around her feline
Curves and sensuous secrets shared
Over booze and a buzz like some
Fine leather or satin or surreal nakedness.
You see them all the time,
On street corners, in the cab, the receptionist
With that mad twinkle in her contact blues.
They disclaim the feeling of inferiority with
High-class careers and neurotic stories,
The has been, the wanna-be, the lonely and blithering.
Appearing in Deeper Than Pink, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2009
~A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warn the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl.~ Anne Sexton
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