I dig out my eyes from my head and seat them so comfortably atop this wall surrounding me. I watch myself from a separate stare and see me dying just to be seen as something I know I am not. But still I contemplate how tough can I make this look, thumb in my mouth and my finger in my nose. It’s okay, nobody’s watching.
When you’re staring down the bottom of your gullet that’s a plastic cup and a scream from your mother says “Son, will you please back up?” Don’t stare too long, you’re strung in, out. Some movements? None. And they’ll call us soft again.
Your supple hand in a cusp to shield against a hypothetical wind, when there are smaller candles, burning faster, mocking the sad state you're in. "Gimme time, you'll eat your words" in a mutter as you limp off stage. Nursing colours, hissing inwards, ‘cause damn it kid you know you'll have your day.
So should I change this so when I see myself I’ll see a changed man, a better person? Well I spent this long just trying to be me and now I can be. So I will put these eyes back in my head, perfectly satisfied with who I am and always have been.
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