Scratch

Scratch

It’s that blank 

morning stare,

looking past me

to the door and the street,

sometimes not existing

for a moment or two.

A feeling I crave.

Not to be wide open

to other peoples complications,

a figure in stain glass,

a ill conceived portrait

of an angel

with dusty wings.

Imagining;

the water I drink

is wine,

the food on my plate

a thick New York steak,

no apple or core.

Slipping inside

the side effects

of my mind,

defect;

crouching down

only to be noticed

for doing so.

And I scratch mascara 

from the corner of my eyes,

anxiety creeping over me,

like sin.