Yesterday, I was all fidget and re-check:
the stove, my lipgloss, perpetual pieces
of cinnamon gum. check, recheck, triple
check reflection in the mirror, the cellphone,
the windows of tilted buildings.
Sheepishly meeting the eyes
of similar rituals for passerbys.
Neither admitting that this inordinate
fascination of appearance, this
illusion of control is about seeing
only my face in a mirror. Erase the
shadows of you like an iron on
wrinkled linen. An ordinary panic
from an ordinary breakup. It’s only
unusual after the eighth grade.
I’ve finally begun to find a new narrative.
To smirk, instead of melting. To stop
analyzing your statuses for hidden meanings
and finally hide your strategically
I take back my fortune cookie futures,
my worst knock knock jokes, and
all my secrets shared over melting
Italian ice. Find someone else and
start your routine over again.
It's more effective on a younger audience.