If I remember to eat
at least twice
[and keep each meal in my system
until it's supposed to come out]
it's a healthy day.

If my hair smells like shampoo
and my clothes like detergent,
[instead of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and bitter sex sweat
from a week or a month or a life-time's worth of binging]
it's a respectable day.

If I manage to wear make-up,
my face a wonder of artificial glow,
[like the misery of pregnancy reflected in the shining face
of a young expectant mother,
"You look so happy," they tell her,
after she's wiped the tears away
to display her full belly in public because]
it's a beautiful day.

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