Note To Self

It's too late. The season has passed, and your garden is choked with weeds. You still pretend to tend it. Your guests pretend to love it--smiles all around.

Your home is a facade. The opulent exterior hides bare walls where you curl up alone on the floor. Your mate is just a dream, and you gave your children to the dogs. Don't expect a thank-you-note.

Put on your face when you walk outside; it's all you possess. Make your rounds, and don't forget to check the grave where you hid your conscience. It's still there, dead and deep. When you get back home, have a good stiff drink. You deserve it.

Don't look too deeply into the mirror, or you'll see you've outgrown your sandbox. If you find yourself crawling out, let your charlatans put you back, and slap a pacifier in your mouth. Then crap yourself and wait for a change.