And to them perhaps I am something else: a fading locket photograph;
a child without future, best abandoned in the forest,
fated as wolffood; the gelatinous abomination
that no one at the potluck wants to touch;
the lisp in her voice as it strains between each attempt at tune. And to them I
am the intangible—the moment where I slide their daughter’s hair behind her ear
as she smiles the sun away
is the moment I lose all credibility, the moment in which
I commit the crime of having stuffed too much
of her love inside of me
and I know soon it will start radiating out, a sad
disgusting secretion. I haven’t made a good impression—I haven’t made an impression at all, I’m too busy
watching her little huffs of excitement when I walk through,
watching her sketch her soul down
into her notebook, watching
the way she blinks her family
into the sunspots. On their assessment I answer honestly.
I recognize myself in the mirror:
Always
Most of the time
Sometimes
Almost never
Never. On their assessment I answer honestly. I am worthy of love:
Always
Most of the time
Sometimes
Almost never
Never.
On their assessment I answer honestly. I am
anything besides human:
Always
Most of the time
Sometimes
Almost never
Never.
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