This isn’t working. Last night I gnawed the gold polish from my nails. There were surely ten layers of a fake mentality, working against me.
I thought gold could change things. But even potential wanes, like the ebb and flow of surrounding waters.
I thought red might still suit me like it did back then–but it doesn’t.
I hate it. It disgusts me. Red is a color for lovers and cardinals.
I am a raven; black, that is what suits me best. This time, I will reach for the remover so I can toss the remnants of that red color in the trash.
I will see last night’s gold polish flakes in the ash tray when I return home: I will dump it and continue to chain-smoke my way through the remainder of this day. Another filthy habit.
I will find solace as the black nail polish peaks through the handle of my black mug of black coffee tonight. And when it chips I will pile more layers upon the nudity of my dilemma.
Another man has been indicted. Over a dozen kids were killed last week in America. I still replay those playlists which are beyond my reach. I remain in panic and doubting–fully torn inside. Trump wants a parade and all I want is some stability.