I flop around looking for a venue—
what to project myself onto today—or who.
Peering at faces on the internet—like recognizing
the self in the self or the self
lessness of your own face.
As a child, I was mesmerized
and terrified by staring into my own pupils
in the mirror—the first of many times I realized
there’s no me in me. Devil child.
Take me to the mall and let me loose
on a plate of 1998 Panda Express. Like nothing
we’d tasted till then. Truthfully, I was devilish
in my early distrust of god, but otherwise
perfectly compliant. My crimes always
thought crimes. Writing “I hate you”
on a tiny scrap of paper then shoving it
into the crack between my bed and wall.
Looking for a venue, I wrote
for the opposite of social media.
Sometimes, I relate so much to the face
of a cool literary magazine that I believe
I’ve already published there. I quit our friendship,
feeling used, which is usual. Used or the opposite—
like a favor, a poem that might reveal its
ungenius, or a little post in the fence that holds
the winter cows in—exposed.