Self Portrait

She kept a diary. In cigarette butts and broken dishes. Metaphors in every inhale. Adjectives sealed in the glue used to reassemble the shattered pieces. She kept the nouns in her pillowcase while she slept. She kept a diary. Everyone does. In every pore of their skin. Every handshake. Glance. And scratched itch.

She kept her pages in little piles. Black lipstick on white kisses. Sonograms of thoughts only partially born.

She kept a diary. Of every face. Every breath. Though most of it remained unwritten. Colorless. Flavorless gelatin molds shimmering on a stage of fractured plates. At the back of a broken refrigerator. She kept everything. Her brain idly tracing every slope of light that broached the glass. While she did nothing. Looking out from behind it. Seeing only her reflection.

A diary. In every glance. of each stranger. A diary. In every person I'll never know.