Vanity (January 2014) by Renee

There it is again,

That finger pointing inward,

calling forth a retchedness

hiding within. I want it out! 

People can see it

swelling up in my gut

and rolling from my chin.

I'll point that finger of blame

at myself, until it scores the gullet.

I know this is wrong.
I am so ashamed.

But shame is just one more motive.

The crying isn't self-pity. 

It's scary, but the tears
are not from fear.
 There's an acidity suiting
to this corrosive experience.

It stains my nose. Great. 

Now I stink too.

Once that feeling of drowning

passes, I feel better. For now. No,

forever this time. No more of this!

But I am too indulgent. Too impulsive.

So blindly ambitious.
I'm just like my family. I feel

that choleric inheritance land,
like a knighting sword, squarely 
on my shoulders as I kneel

 in front of a white throne

where I must purge myself

of myself and my true hungers

for that insatiable appetite for perfection.