Myopia


At night I reproduce myself, hologram
on magazine gloss, floss my teeth
with a peppermint tease; -3.50 dpt
softening the way I look:
no pus-filled polka dots
skirting my chin, nor perfume-
stricken nose, intimate
with its bee-branded blemish.
It reminds me of the mornings
contacts colonized my world-view:
skipping breakfast to catch a bus,
pavements overran by a design
of bubblegum, fashionistas fancying
over-tweezed polaroid portraits,
and the rain starting to operate
on side-swept bangs.

From my seat, I could see
a battery cage of narcissists,
synchronously dipping brushes
into the clip art of their skin,
but it comforts me that I left
my mirrors and magazines,
sandwiched, in the corner
of a shortsighted sanctuary.

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