The realtor I befriended in the cult once admitted that she had cellulite and then she apologized for her dark thoughts, and I didn’t know what was dark in it. It was a cloaked confession, since we were both in longer shorts, waiting for a picnic to start by Unison Lake. She said, we aren't even allowed to have cellulite, and I knew she didn't mean by the cult because neither of us perceived we were in a cult; she meant by her man. I thought my thoughts were darker. The headlines harm my gentle soul. If you were to read my thoughts, the day’s news might flash before you -- news I reject at the barrier between me & it -- and you might think I were news too. You cast me to your left, then your right, in your seeking a better woman, but you do not know me. I am so afoul of my genuine likes & dislikes that I write you, and you ignore me. I think of you before sleep. I protest to my non-cat, my bunched pillow, that people need to engulf someone at night. You're a sign in glorious physical gear.
Distressedly,
Donna
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