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I remember
the night I first
let her go, opened the
smeared glass, one thin pane,
cellophane between rules and sin,
freed.
More on Bree
Spare me
those Psych ’01 labels,
I’m no more schizo than most.
Bree is
no imaginary playmate,
no overactive pituitary,
no alter ego, moving in.
Hers is the face I wear,
treading the riptide,
fathomless oceans where
good girls drown.
Besides,
even good girls have secrets,
ones even their best friends must guess.
Who do
they turn to on lonely
moon-shadowed sidewalks?
I’d love to hear them confess:
Who do they become when
night descends,
a cool puff of smoke, and
vampires come out to party?
My Mom Will Tell You
