I have noted in these past few nights,
that Confidence is not found in the usual places;
it is not found inside another person
between cracks and small openings,
between the rust and rubble of
someone’s dampened heart,
or broken art,
but rather among
leather, lipstick and lingerie
— and no, I don’t list these because I am an object,
but rather because I am creating one.
I am creating the L illusion,
the mathematical formula for Confidence,
the concocted potion in a witch’s pot,
as my hot, boiling broth of
newly found esteem,
spills over the edges,
rising in steam,
and falling onto the floor
only to be caught in my palms.
I take a sip of the potion.
The formula flashes before my eyes:
leather jacket + red lipstick + lingerie = the L illusion,