Notes on a slip

Its easy to be someone else behind closed doors.
Well, it used to be.
Now its Nina Simone on repeat just above audible so as not to wake the roommates.
White slips and red lipstick that no one sees but me.
Tiptoes in black heels that still make the floors creep so loud its like the quick, sharp feel of an ice cream headache.
Its too late to make this much noise-
At least all by myself.
She said I snap at everyone so much lately maybe I should live alone.
Alone. Earphones on all the time.
Alarmingly disalarmed, seeking solace in my lonely hostility.
Such malevolence.
Maybe I find a rush in bridled cruelty.
The same secret blood-race from wearing red heels standing on a chair looking through the tattered reflection before me.
(The chair is required. My mirrors- like my expectations- are set too high.)
I'm not supposed to engage in such high blood pressure.
It could kill me.
I could fall off that ornate, antique chair.
I could forget that I'm not alone.
Remember that nothing is really behind closed doors.
Its no secret that my slip is showing.