Breaking in, not breaking free,
The chapstick
Chafing the wax dome down
With my sandpaper lips
Until it becomes like the mold of my teeth
The dentist keeps for me.
The chapstick is too waxy for my taste
But I'll wear it down to what I want
By wearing it on my sandpaper lips to
Hide what's behind them,
No teeth
Just negative,
Empty
Space.

It stifles me,
A thick wool blanket that's
Butter-soft with a butter smell,
Wrapping around my sinuses like a
Tissue stuffed up a nosebleed.
Curlicues like optical illusions,
The lenses of the 3D glasses that
Weren't handed to me
Bring my flat insecurities to life:
I'm the kernels on the bottom of the
Popcorn machine
Needing to be blown and buttered
Up to be presentable.
Until the expectations
Along with the glasses
Come off to be recycled
To another empty corn husk of a person
Who needs air and butter to fill them
(But who really doesn't.)