Plastic Tumbler
To fear.
To pain.
Cheers to all the things
that keep our hearts
contained.
And that wretch in the mirror.
"Smiles don't suit you, dear."
Apathy's awful, but I wonder if she's right
as I stretch my face muscles
before bed at night.
And I want my life back.
I'd die a hundred times over
for peonies and pyramids to cross my path
before I'm returned
to my place in the dirt.
And I don't know...
I just don't know what to do
when she stirs these abrasive thoughts by hand
and I haven't the strength
to open the mascara tube.
If I'm going to raise my glass to self-pity,
perhaps I should raise a plastic tumbler instead.
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