Me, Baring My Soul in Bad Prose

CURED

Me,  baring my soul in bad prose on

a public blog, albeit one nobody sees.

The former me — the self-absorbed, the 

girl  who  never dared to lean back on 

the universe,  the me who cared what

people  thought  of her,  as if the Great 

Unwashed had offered an opinion, pro

or con or can't be bothered,  Lady, get a

clue, there ain't nobody watching  you — 

she  doesn't  live  here  any more...  and  

my,  oh  my,   the  freedom's  sweet,   it  is,

divulging to the world at large, regardless

of its momentary lack of curiosity,  a secret; 

a discovery;  an inspiration;  an epiphany;

 a bit of intuition; something unexceptional

delivered in a burst of spontaneity; or an

anomaly, like this one: Hey, guys!  Listen 

up! I had these ugly blemishes that I was

 in denial of until an angel visited my

 meditation, kissed  me, and  as quickly

vanished in the shadow of the whisper

of an admonition:  Girlfriend? Try not

 to  scratch  those  tender little patches

on your skin. Let them remind you to

be kinder to yourself and not 

to whack your pretty 

face again