Eight megapixels
capture miserable,
high-resolution hazels looking to
the sky but landing
somewhere in
the middle.

That picture
perfect ending inspires
me to imbibe an
inebriated vibe
and vie for your
affections in every still
frame I can

You’re the avarice of
my eye but they never capture you crying,
only mascara course-corrected on
the fly;

and I spy
something in the corner
a little coarser than
you ask of happily
ever afters,

something kept
in captivity until
it dies.

(a caged disaster?)

And there’s an
asterisk on
the photo album,
black-marking us alums of strained

rapscallions passing for
something worthwhile,
while all the while we’re
always falling apart behind
the scenes.


6 thoughts on “Selfie

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