Retort

here I go to the mirror
to quarrel with imperfection
to settle my disputes with failure.

like craft paper perforations
and wind mills
                          I spu t t  e  r
for the innocence of adolescence.

The cracking white wall wonder keeps me
paralyzed like words on the tip of your fingers.
and an explanation would only serve as
strangled interjections in eye sockets;
mere whispers at the feet of reprimand.

this is a                                  on drive,
            tuobanrut.turnabout         
like confessions to a marionette on a cold summer night:
I dangle on strings of intolerance
suppressed by internal mediocrity.

Crescent nail marks on my face
rendered by popped pimples
as a means of purgative frustration
      (.blotch.y red reflection)
butter me up with foundation
    -I am no stranger to insecurity-