The midnight's light

In the stillness of my bedroom,

the light of midnight

folds upon itself,

one thick layer at a time

like a painfully blue towel

slowly flooding the space

as the clock rolls along,

unable to stop.

All it takes:

a single memory;

“but that’s for girls,”

awake till dawn, waiting

as I live in that reverie

where my nails aren’t oh so pale,

where my self isn’t the talent of an actress,

where I can wear that pretty dress

and feel the wind on my hairless skin.

But before the midnight’s light fades,

I stand from my mother’s old and sturdy chair,

reach out under the folds of the thick blue towel,

take in that oh so familiar scent, and grab from above

the bottle of purple nail polish,

for tonight is a dark, dark night.