Selfie
when one finger points, three point back
Struck by your own beauty
you are dumbfounded.
Lessoned in the lexicon
of self-love, you're expert
in the grammar of facial
expressions. I suppose
it's normal to be curious
about your appearance. Marvel
over nature's design or worry
about the ravages of time
as one ages. Yet there's
something a little scary when
you have albums full of only
your face. Not broad in
the corner of some country-
sided mountain nor red-eyed, punch-
drunk happy at a long-forgotten after-
hours party, nor suitably made-
up at a boring black-tie
function. But without context
or compunction. As is.
For one, the heady
fascination with your
own likeness. For you,
not shy to make that love
known in public spaces.
You are the apple of your eye
in vain to deny. You track
your tell-tale signs
as they start you right back
hot on your trail. You outfox
yourself and pounce past your
own tail. You are the smoke
and the mirrors of your self-
regard. In solitaire the poker-
faced trump card. You would love
for cupid to stab your own
heart and to have
and to hold your-
self till death do you part.
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