Shut the door. The mirror beckons. Wait for it to get humid, And steep the Selves like tea, shed the sanctions, the shirts, and whisper, We’ve grown up hiding and lying, riding and flying, and drifting between living and dying. We of yellowed skin and a temperament for Ambition; an affliction that tilts the world to slipping, missing, hating but searching for the firm grasp of My mother’s arms. When we are done cutting and pasting, we bathe in the extremes. An exorbitant amount of shampoo and dangerously hot water will slough away any shame. We are full of ourselves and humbled by celebrating the depth of the graves of which we’ve so gracefully created. We of hidden lunchboxes and a spectrum of voices, this delicate dance that we’ve devised, when we’re not all made to be dancers. When we are done cutting and pasting, a little too much soap can bathe it all away, scalding hot water will boil away mistakes, a little extra scrubbing, sting, can mask red marks with smiles. We are larger than whole in pieces, jumping from place to place, and staring at Faults in the face. We who are void of and saturated in talent, in masses liability grasped in our hands, maybe we’ve trapped ourselves by the fingers and the mouths. When we are done cutting and pasting, a lot of everything, soap, temperature, tears, is still not enough to fill the chunks we’ve cut from flesh and a little bit of everything, is yet always a tightening leash. When we are done cutting and pasting, we will still be hiding and lying, riding and flying, and remaining restlessly somewhere between living and dying. So the mirror doesn’t matter, since the door shuts in the steam.
MiC Columnist Alice HB Lee can be reached at email@example.com.