Addicted to fog

I brush aside
apologies followed by
the same behavior.

One day feels like a thousand years.

Giving over
to nature’s righteous bells,
I insist on shadow play.

To be kept hidden, to be kept,
they made me their construct,
curves devoid of flesh.

I don’t see this as fiction.

I am more or less
a whore in sheep’s clothing,
taking my tea alone.