Self Portrait
Sometimes I find an old strand of hair tangled
in the fibers of my clothes. The strand is
green. Red. Purple.
Teal. Auburn. Blonde.
I wriggle the strand out,
prying a piece of who I once was
from my time-capsule sleeves.
I recall what it was like to be Me
at that time, with fresh, faded,
and reanimated hair. And as
I sweep, I remember that
the dust must be made of at least
50% dead skin cells. They shrivel
and flake off, and the remnants
of Me are lost to the vacuum.
Self-Actualization/Self-Design
To deteriorate is an art.
Each morning, my bones
ache and snap— one by one.
I grip my flesh and pry it apart,
shedding my skin like leaves
in the winter. I’m making room
for my new and improved model.
Flesh is too unforgiving.
It scars and burns and flakes
off. With new implementations—
arteries of wire, carbon fiber musculature,
stainless steel face plates—
imagine the strength I wield.
I wanna be painless.
Privileged to never sweat,
never bleed, never cry.
Construct my frame with me,
hand in cybertronic hand.
Upload my consciousness,
integrate my processors.
Make me an archetype of proficiency—
efficient, effective, and effortless.
For My Dearest Pianist:
I miss your gentle hands
and warm breath. Easygoing,
light, sunbreeze, breath.
I miss your fingers— how
they would graze my lips
and I would sing to you.
You were so gentle, fingers
curling and curving, tapping
and holding. And sometimes
you were rough. Sharp strokes
and quick strikes— closed
eyes and deep breaths.
I remember you would
rock and sway, submitting
to our song. And when we
were spent, you would close
me up gently— so gentle—
and leave your sheet music
upon my brow.
In Defense of My Scabs and Scars
My face is pressed to the mirror again.
I climb onto the sink, and with a close eye,
my fingers dance across my broken skin,
scrutinizing each spot of irritation.
I should be out the door, but time flies by
when my face is pressed to the mirror again.
I pinch and squeeze at the swelling pearls within
my flesh. I will make each pore bleed ‘til I’m dry,
so my fingers search along my broken skin.
I focus on a cluster on my chin,
unconsciously scouring, to purify
my face, pressed to the mirror again.
The buildup of sebum and keratin
spills out of my cheek like botflies,
as my fingers dig into my broken skin.
With each release of pressure, an imprint
of my crescent nails remain. My
face is pressed to the mirror again,
and my fingers scratch at my broken skin.
Here’s my looks from the past parties:
Catholic Party:
Rope Bunny Party:
