Single Mom of Small Children Found In the Closet

Therapists always tell you to be clear about what you need, To think clearly, and speak clearly, like clarity is some kind of prize. I’m not so sure that clarity is all that great, really. I think I prefer the hazy impressions that drift across my mind In the twilight zone of just-before-sleep… Snippets of conversation, impossible ideas, half-forgotten images, And everything seems to connect on its own without my help. The best part is that I’m not expected to do anything at all. Clarity, again. There’s always too much to handle, more to do, And I know it makes sense to be sharp, think fast, be clear. But the sharpness hurts sometimes. The vodka is a cushion and a veil.