neurotic

draining bottles in a nameless bar
in the middle of oklahoma tallgrass--
unaware of cells dividing,
the reckoning to come,
she is overly comfortable
with her imagined autonomy

her muse watches,
perplexed by her decisions--
her gift for exploiting
the exponential quality
of catastrophe--
life-ending, life-altering,
just plain dumb,

he orders a whiskey,
prepared to wait
it out

easter sunday, 1979,
she wrote for the first time

and never stopped,

the addiction
of her neuroses
blackening the page--
the quick fix
her ego can't resist

twenty-some years will pass
before she finds strength enough
to let someone in

the gain
of a reader
(as with a lover)
is offset
by a certain loss
of freedom
for one supposedly accustomed
to games of truth

scribbles rehash
not-so-hidden messages--
the right choice
is simply too damn hard,

good intentions misplaced,
lies outright & of omission,
a fictional rebuke, her mantra--
you have no shame and no honor

but the muse collects
his due,
the price paid
bleeds out in ink
that can't be erased

each poem built
upon secrets & anger,
defined by doubt
she hopes the word
will save her,

turns out faith is the one thing
she can't fake

on the proverbial ledge,
she wonders what it would take
for one more step--
submitting completely
to the comfort of her demons

last call,
& there's a voice
whispering from the backroom
of her heart, reminding her
each day is worthy of its own story,
they're not all bad

maybe she'll realize that the
happy ending she lucked into
(a decade chasing)
hasn't deprived her of anything
she wasn't already missing

the muse laughs,
finishes his drink,
pays her tab,
follows her down a gravel road

miles from home