New Year

Red chapped lips.

Eyes lined in daggers.

Glitter 

on glitter

on spilled champagne.

Optimism dances in drunk 

promising to murder old habits.

Did we really leave 

our old selves in December,

or will they slip back in

disguised

in sparkles 

and borrowed confidence?

Dainty aerialist 

hanging by one hand,

the crowd and her forearms

screaming

while gravity pulls.

Elegance in danger.

Grace under pressure.

This is the girl

I’ve worked hard to be. 

Maybe this year,

you'll meet her

with shaking hands

still 

choosing

you.