I play the same song,
set that beat on repeat
so, I can write and think
or think and write
about my strange life.

A glass complexion,
distorted reflection
filled with old and new
shades and hues
of my personal truths.

Like a mirror I exist in
the dark hallways
from old schooldays
as I crept quietly
to get whatever ology
book I needed
to do my homework.

Like late Friday nights
working with my mom
at the daycare center
cleaning up
to save her a couple bucks
as I listen to the cheers
an see the searing stadium lights
from the high school
less than a block away.

Like red flesh swelling up
though not quite bruising,
from the anger of a parent
who felt some unknown rage
that I cannot decode;
Silent stares in contemplation
facing the man in the mirror
with a queer confused face,

My memory is
like a baby bird
that sat straddling
the thin brown branches
barely balancing
precariously
close to falling.