when it comes to memoirs

she was born straight-faced
a stare solid as a white wall.
pale cream, smooth silk
no humanly crease would populate
or evidence of wrinkles would exist.
the dark crevices carved in her eyes,
endless black vacuums swallowing light,
swallowing all those who go by.
caramel frames of these holes-
sweet, luring, strands of muscle
contracting, snapping photos; cameras.
her lips, however, remain locked;
secrets recorded, secrets untold.
inside that mind she lines them up.
like examinees they cautiously roll in
claiming a space along a wall
of her vacant, now occupied, room
labeled: thoughts, emotions, people: memoirs.
the room for anything, for everything
admitted through her ears and eyes.
she clacks her shoes on the hard floor,
sets her chair, sits, and stares, peering
with that straight-faced mask
judging each moment the examinees offer.
one by one, like cleaning a closet,
some must go while significants stay.
then there's you, wriggling, near the end,
puffs of smoke replacing each before you.
anxiety knocking, banging, barricading,
spazzing heart and glazing cold sweats,
until the vacuum comes to you, a bit of dust
cemented in a fetal position
ready for the "expected"
when what happens is unexpected.
a sliver of the sunrise evolves
from a crack in her straight solid wall.
she dies with a smile because of you.
and sets like a star
hiding behind earth's horizon.