She waits in a cocoon
of her own making.
lets the cobwebs grow
She says forgetting is easier
than living
with what you’ve lost
or having to admit your
part in the plot
So she shrouds herself
in the aroma of cat-piss
ammonia
unwashed hair and
disinterested repellent
the inconvenience of the answering
the door
left to others–
those content
to clean up her messes.
It was always easier for her
to go to
extremes
either an exhibit or
a demolition
as frenzied as her
highs and lows
she learned to control your
yes’s and no’s
with a
“You’ll be sorry once I’m gone”
or
“I don’t ask much of you but
I give you everything”
or
“Now I know you don’t love me.”
Love so contingent
on the moment
Love with
selective memory
like the ones she wraps herself in
like when she clutched your strings with
stone fingers
so proud
that this
was the someone
she could create in her
own image
the All She Never Was
the She she wants to re-live
buried deep on the
visceral level
she knows
that when they looked at you
they knew
those tear-stains were
her brushstrokes
on your
blank canvas
the colors
she couldn’t claim she
whitewashed
Now
she’ll content herself in
those cobwebs
the “what was”
unanswered phone calls
the empty chair at the wedding
the conversations restricted
to health
and pets
and
how the world has wronged her
She misses when
the illusion
still dazzled you
For her
it still does.