In red pajamas,
laying on the couch,
My friend, again,
the fog visits my head.
Yes, everything is true,
or so they’ll vouch,
Existing inside feelings,
rarely said.
I’m held down by
Anxiety’s clamp.
Internalizing
synthetic fantasies,
Leaving no room for me
to un-assume.
I fade into
my false realities
In clothes that smell
of yesterday’s perfume.
the fragrance writer 