He is just tall enough to make me feel like a giant by the way he cranes his neck to look at me
His hands are too small for the camera he is holding
No one notices as he takes pictures of them
While they look at pictures on the walls
I ask him if I am on his camera
And he asks me to sit so he can show me
“Start at the beginning,” I say
There are no pictures of the actual work in any of his photographs
These are 14 megapixel close-ups
Of faces you thought you only made when you were alone
And I don’t want to see myself anymore
But I don’t stop him
These paintings might as well be mirrors
They might as well be
Crystal clear soul windows daring us to stare
a moment longer
The faces we make into them are response enough
To what we see inside
I already know what I see inside
It’s like listening to your own voice on a tape recorder
You can hear how ugly your voice is
Even though
everyone else tells you
“You sound like yourself”
Looking at these pictures is like walking in on your parents having ***
I know I am not supposed to be here
And after about 30 pictures we get to mine
These are 14 megapixels worth of tears drying on my cheeks
Suddenly I wish this museum was on fire
And the beams above us would come crashing down and bury us
I wonder why a little boy felt the need to photograph my soul
And I hate him for it
I hate his smile
And his eyes that have not yet seen enough
And his heart
Beating like a hesitant breeze
Warning us of winter
He must see all this on my face
Because he takes another picture
Then runs to his father almost tripping over the camera
Which hangs from a lanyard
Wrapped around his tiny wrist
I get up and leave
I avoid my own reflection in windows as I walk back to my car
I never again want to see what I feel like
And I will spend the rest of my life knowing
That somewhere
There is a little boy with a camera
That holds a picture of me
While I am crying
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 6:53 PM UTC
He is just tall enough to make me feel like a giant by the way he cranes his neck to look at me
His hands are too small for the camera he is holding
No one notices as he takes pictures of them
While they look at pictures on the walls
I ask him if I am on his camera
And he asks me to sit so he can show me
“Start at the beginning,” I say
There are no pictures of the actual work in any of his photographs
These are 14 megapixel close-ups
Of faces you thought you only made when you were alone
And I don’t want to see myself anymore
But I don’t stop him
These paintings might as well be mirrors
They might as well be
Crystal clear soul windows daring us to stare
a moment longer
The faces we make into them are response enough
To what we see inside
I already know what I see inside
It’s like listening to your own voice on a tape recorder
You can hear how ugly your voice is
Even though
everyone else tells you
“You sound like yourself”
Looking at these pictures is like walking in on your parents having ***
I know I am not supposed to be here
And after about 30 pictures we get to mine
These are 14 megapixels worth of tears drying on my cheeks
Suddenly I wish this museum was on fire
And the beams above us would come crashing down and bury us
I wonder why a little boy felt the need to photograph my soul
And I hate him for it
I hate his smile
And his eyes that have not yet seen enough
And his heart
Beating like a hesitant breeze
Warning us of winter
He must see all this on my face
Because he takes another picture
Then runs to his father almost tripping over the camera
Which hangs from a lanyard
Wrapped around his tiny wrist
I get up and leave
I avoid my own reflection in windows as I walk back to my car
I never again want to see what I feel like
And I will spend the rest of my life knowing
That somewhere
There is a little boy with a camera
That holds a picture of me
While I am crying
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