Sometimes the secrets are puked on the floor in the middle of a crowded room, with nothing to do but observe the varied expressions of horror on the faces surrounding us. While standing amid the crowd, ankle deep in vomit and life heading down a road that wasn't on the well-marked map... what response? Keep that plastic smile on your face; the one showing an inch of gum and your tongue pressed against your upper teeth, like you're wearing a retainer? Take a new photo that looks as good as the old one? Photoshop out the vomit, in a lovely background and sell the new photo to your friends as a trip to the Bahamas?
Or... set out to obliterate that road and all the roads you've ever known, all the while fabricating, nay, confabulating reasons the loony-toon behavior is fully justified?
Do you take your gun and drive in circles for hours, adding a measure of crazy, as each second ticks loudly by? Do you sit at the end of a road, staring at a curtained window, wanting, plotting to obliterate its existence? Do you stand in a parking lot, kicking, hitting, biting, paint-covered key in hand, imploring your focus to come closer, screaming like a lunatic at an innocent child? Oh, it's alright. She isn't your child. Cling to the justification as you may, it won't help in court.
When you pass the mirror, do you catch a glimpse of this new you? Do you like what you see? Do you even notice the change?
Not secret anymore, how do you re-hinge this unhinged lid and put the crazy back in the box? Can you? You have to ask yourself if the crazy wasn't just under a perfunctory lock and key, like the one found on a child's diary; Always there, rattling the flimsy little lock.
I have seen and believed, appearances meant everything... What then happens when a bully can't control the appearance anymore? I wonder now, if once the pretense is dropped, the unhinging is permanent.
je vous ai dit cette chienne est folle
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