So this isn't the demon
you told me about.

It's awfully common,
you say,
of a person my age
to feel hyper-reactive
once in awhile--
to walk a mile
in her own head,
painting it petty and sparkling.

But maybe I should
at least know better
than to ride a flamboyant hell.
"Let's piece together these rags

otherwise known as my personality,"
I think to myself
as I glide from
one face to the next.

I am not Cinderella
I am her
kin.
If I were old enough
I would drink myself
down with a bottle of
gin,
of gin made from kin,

indignation and rejection.

"Untalented,” I claim
heresy to my personality,
thinking, "everyone looks better than me.
I can be better than them."
I hear you tsk,
and my other demons say,

"Let her stay!
Let her stay!"

Because I need the confidence.

But the diva's not the demon
you speak of.

Who is it really?
Introduce him or her.
Has it ever occurred
to you that we would make
a good pair of masters,

of narcissists, of lovers?
A team in all the bad places,
performing an absurd show,
breaking hearts.