There’s my public self, my private self, and my secret self
And they are all lying to the other-
I have never smoked a cigarette
I asked a boy when I was nineteen, standing in the cold,
soul-sick, the copper of cracked lips
and he said he wouldn’t be the reason for my corruption, saying my name like porcelain
I thought he must see me like I didn’t,
the catharsis of being knowable, so I never asked anyone again.
When is the epiphany part of all this?
I have searched for the salve, a balm of chemicals and light,
or the adornment of gauzy armor, wings under a hot bulb.
It is too late to be standing on such spindly legs
The thought that no one will look that closely again,
telling you who you are.

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