Carved myself down
to become the pool
through which Narcissus stares

nothing more
when he found
brighter lakes to peer in

so I lie
in the curves of the meadow
and to everyone who passes by

What good is reflection,
if I do not move on?

And these boys are ever nicer
than he ever was,
that I wish it were easy to love,
instead I hold back

the gut-wrenching bile
that their niceness
brings up

The thing with carving is
once carved, forever gone -
a phantom limb
to taunt with what was,

and to finally know
that no action or word
can truly be taken back.