She locks the bathroom door,
combs tangles from her hair, scans the row of faces
stacked neatly in her drawer.

Listens to the rules, a whore
to expectations; a persona for all her places.
She locks the bathroom door,

wonders how she see nothing more
than a black spot in the looking glasses
stacked neatly in her drawer.

Slam closed the blinds, ignore
the gallop of the wind, the abandon it embraces.
She locks the bathroom door.

Who would know her, if she tore
away those painted masks, filled those empty pages
stacked neatly in her drawer?

Remembers how at five, she pinky-swore
she would find her song untied from canon-ed laces.
She unlocks the bathroom door, throws away

the faces stacked neatly in her drawer.

Laurie Mackie

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