She wavered.
She wavered between them the way a metronome might,
Set on its steady,
insistent
path.
Good?
Bad?
Good?
Bad?
...
Who was she?
Bad?
Good?
Bad?
...
She caught a glimpse of it.
There.
In the store window.
She hated it.
The way it stood there,
Staring back at her like it might actually BE her.
The nerve
Good?
Bad?
...
Sometimes she thought if it ever really looked her in the eye,
She might just smash it.
Break it.
Crush its windpipe between her fingers like breadcrusts,
Balled into dough.
Bad?
Bad.
Bad bad bad. Badbadbadbadbadbadbadbadbaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad.
Good?
...
Wavered.
Wavered between them.
The girl in her window and the girl in her chest.
One, the other, both, neither, either, none.
Oneotherbothneitheriethernone.
Good, bad, good, bad, good ugly, bad pretty, bad ugly, good lovely,
Hatelovehatehatelovehatelovehatelove.
Who was she?
-May 2010
"Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind, in the commonplaces of the asylum where the cracked mirror or my own selfish death outstared me . . . I tapped my own head; it was glass, an inverted bowl. It's a small thing to rage inside your own bowl. At first it was private. Then it was more than myself." -Anne Sexton
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