frowny-face

it's not a dislike of fried eggs
it's not a spontaneous dance-off with a five year old
nor Mrs. Peacock, aghast

it's tearing up, watery eyes
traitorous lump in your throat
with a heartache stomach-burn
depressive writing, another page to turn   ...

flinchless

I keep thinking, that one day... - one day I'll be eighty, and I won't flinch any more. I won't cringe with embarrassment. I won't turn bright red, or have to leave, out of embarrassment for a character in a movie. I'll be able to read through dramatic irony without having to skip ahead to make sure that I will survive. one day, all this over conciousness will fade. One day those moments that flash back out of no where will be gone and won't make me flinch because I just turned pink in a room full of strangers for no apparent reason and perhaps made an audible squeak.