Terse,
tight-lipped,
taut.
You turn your head away;
to the mirror,
to fix your make-up.
"Try that again and you won't see me for dust,"
your look says.
And so, I submit myself
to the same old blackmail:
do what you want,
spend what you want,
go where you want.
I can't play this silly game.
But yet in my heart:
another notch,
another marker.
They pile up so
high
They will soon blacken the sky