Carson McCullers

Whenever I think of you, I put on cold sunglasses.

Especially when the light can't get darker or darkness more light and I'm outside looking for things no one else will tell me.

It's then you lift up your voice.

I hear you singing but I can't see your eyes, which I imagine to be the color of Aleve, the vivid blue pills that have the Strength To Last 12 Hours, and sparkle with little sunspots of the taboo.

While you sing I hunker down, north and south of my heart, and peer out from the sunglasses--dark tinted lenses with a thick black plastic frame--which mask the pain to a certain point, though I could drink vodka and take special drugs and no one would know the difference.

Even behind cold sunglasses the world can have sweet feelings, but it's terrifying to see how all its disguises can be ripped away at that split second when you decide to be yourself and keep nothing hidden.