The Perfect Girl

She throws herself
On the bed
Like a fish on a line.
If he could see her with
No mascara,
He too would share
A perspective of
Banal reality.
Primrose path of “alas”
Defunct “woe is me”
And often little
Optimism without denial.
How long her stories become
When alcohol induced.
She babbles like an infant
Below a bright mobile,
Ignores the eye roll and sigh,
Picks the popcorn husks
From her molars
With an acrylic fingernail.
He never sees her this way –
She chooses not to show him.
Jan. 8, 2004