the hanged girl

You know,
I look beautiful in mirrors.
If you were here,
you could watch me in
freeze-frames,
shift lovely and ugly
in the turns of the light,
in the way I run my fingers through my hair,
or through yours.
Hourglasses in garden rows,
mock me from the hanging tree,
where I see them upside down,
so time just keeps waiting,
or moving backwards,
or flying up
between greening leaves.
Reveling in excesses
and indulgences,
is what I do best.
Which roles am I ignoring?
The ones that make me a woman?
The ones that take my breaths in
pungent wallops and scourging prongs?
My only roles are daydreams,
and drinking,
drawing pictures,
and dying.