Confessions of a Bathroom Drama Queen

March 21, 2008
After checking for inverted Vans and paralleled Reeboks, I find myself happily abandoned.
I rejoice. I am restored to the throne in my kingdom.
Here I am free to undress my battle armor and access my wounds:
My skin, blotted and spattered with scars, new, old, and resurrected.
My feet, throbbing endlessly, echoes out the rhythmic poundings of my blood,
Reminiscent to those of the war drums.
My back, liberated from an immense load, recalls the heavy burden it has carried over mountains, through streams, and will soon put on again.
As the war horns fling their tattered melodies across earth’s dome,
I rewrap my wounds and re-don my war gear.
My long, elegant fingers smear on the colors of my flag in a few smooth, fine strokes.
Without looking back, I march on, a one-woman army,
Leaving my crown and glory behind to fight a tiresome, never-ending battle, alone.

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