look at your reflection. tilt its silver edges, a mirror. you were born with it in your mouth, weren’t you?
perfect face in a silver spoon. rich. precise. eat your soup, reflection dulls. it’s tomato. tomato soup
and grilled cheese. red spoon, like spilt blood. no use crying, right? food in your teeth, maybe it’s over. maybe you should cry. silver spoon, beautiful and perfect, now your reflection is gone and she’s half as beautiful in the perfect flat mirror. your eyes were buggy but your eyelashes were long and now every
wiry hair on your eyelids looks like a stump of nothing. silver spoons. go out to dinner and clatter a
spoon on the floor. did they notice? do you reach under the table and grab the spoon, or will that be
embarrassing? maybe they didn’t notice. you can go back to living life. you don’t even need to eat your
soup. no, they noticed. pick your spoon up, you moron. ask for another one. talk to the waiter, he
shouldn’t scare you, hold up your silver spoon, it’s shiny, reflecting the dim lights of the restaurant,
too dim, you wish you were asleep. spoon, digging into a bowl of cereal at 2 a.m. it’s dark but the
handle of the spoon catches the light, light at the end of the tunnel, light in a dark room, you can see
it there but maybe it’s everywhere, your mother wants you to go to sleep. spoon, round and smooth,
stare at your reflection once you’ve rinsed it off, you’re beautiful again, your lips rounded, peculiar
and fat in the curves of the metal but that’s how they like it these days. you can see the pink in your
cheeks, left over from your makeup, that’s your silver spoon, born into riches, it’s money and it’s
painted on your face. not bad. not wrong. but all riches, no flush, no talk to your crush blush, just skin
lush, foundation from a brush. go to sleep, your body aches, you grip the spoon and your knuckles are white still. put it in the dishwasher, it’s silver too, reflects the very edges of the kitchen. pause as you hover in the dim lights, beauty in the corners of the rooms you thought you memorized. close the
drawers, press an ugly chewed up nail into the cycle buttons and let the dishes soak. wash the day
away. rub your hands into your sleepy eyes, alone in the dark, feel your features, all there and all
even. they don’t feel like how they looked in that shining silver, but they feel like you. they feel like
familiarity. you are real.

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