Don’t Look for Me

I went to work and came home.  Went
back out and bought a dress and skirt at Ross,
decided I needed  M&Ms from Walmart.
Home again, I look at my face in the mirror.  
Chapped and sore from too much
close shaving, too much exfoliating
and cleansing and hot water and ten-thousand
sweeps of the razor blade.  

I mop things up
with an electric shaver.
My lip-corners crack. My chin
is as dry as sandstone, but not
entirely disappointing.

Later I take a picture of myself
and mess with the color a little
and deepen the shadows enough.  
Maybe I’ll look back in a year from now
and see how the skin has changed, the hair
somehow both brighter and darker,
the eyes no longer sharp
monotonous potholes.

I think, this must be happiness.  
Quiet.  Alive.  The need to laugh
married to the need to cry.  
The self suddenly mystic again.
As elusive and ominous as a moon dog.

You and I, don’t you think,
can stop chasing ourselves already?  
We can stop trying to look,
and begin to see.  You
and I. We can
stop trying to touch. I am tired
from trying to touch. Here
are my wrists, here
my thumbs, ears, nape of the neck.
They are yours too.
Do you see them? Of course
you can feel them.



One thought on “Don’t Look for Me

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