~

As I tidy, I organise time in little pill-pockets, sweep debris from sills and tables. I dice their cravings and fancies into some sort of meal, and wash nine hours of lines trod and toed from my clothes, ready for morning.  

These things make me feel needed, and I resent them as though they are chains. Do you draw me as selfish?

~

As I rest, I see my oldest cup with my keys; my coat and cleaned-boots left by the radiator gathering heat, and I wrap myself in a patchwork of dreams. I catch a wink - my favourite colours - beaded from the heartbreak-dark of a room.

These things make me feel loved, and I breathe them as though they are air.
Do you draw me as ungrateful?

~

As I watch, I turn my reflection this way, that way, pile ink-hair on her crown. I imagine my burgundy dress fall over her hips to the floor -  reveal to my mind the vanity of sheer-stockings and dark eyelash-lace on porcelain skin.    

These things make me feel beautiful, and I miss them as though they are dead.
Do you draw me as shallow?

~

Uncanny names of dark,
Florescent as beauty can be,
I must hide my face from evil,
And keep the shadows in me.

Though hard I try but only in distraught,
My mask removed and my feelings brought,
Through emotions I hurt and spread,
I finally become controlled again.

What does the Night say when the dreadful fear listens in me? Everything in me is still wounded and defenseless as an adolescent! I have not yet researched for myself the extended question marks of Redemptive, Hand-held Love and Question and Answer! "What can the dense Night ask, if all the flames of the Universe on each other's glowing-tense bodies are just dust-covered, avittos dazes?"
 
My selfish, man-avoiding stutter in my murderous silences: Where could I have made a mistake? And could only I have sinned ?! I would call him, the Angel who caresses in his chirping voice, still me — I have another difficult day to come — I can’t discover his superstitious lunar face! Despair s selfish tremors all night woe-trouble!
 
What will the Night say in a whisper, and will I be able to trust even those I have surely accepted as my Eternal Friends ?! Will the Dear listen with deliberately tamed zeal when my shattered Soul invites me by asking a giver-expensive confession? ,,Everything is alright?!"
 
Will he listen then? Will you listen to my countless billions of bubbling questions ?! What can the Night listen to if, as a studded, dreamy alien, I had to thrive on this complicated earth alone; Will the Night be silent and speechless ?! My condensed moment, if I'm not careful, promises a trough: injured wrinkles fall from my face with tears…