They marked me as wrong
when I spelled a word backward.
My letters were odd and shapeless
as if a giant inscribed them with a sharp stone.
I thought my fingers were cursed…
I bend and crack my knuckles,
biting my nails under a sky of rain
as I facepalm and grind my teeth.
Eyeballs struggle to spot thin strings of fate.
I twist my wrists in distress.
Moonless nights seeking
for a dangling thread in dreams,
but it seemed to be a cobweb I couldn’t sew.
I glared at my hands like snakes,
hissing at my faulty shadows,
but was it the flaw, that temporary closet
I knelt and prayed until thunder struck
and burned it to ashes?
Or was it a mirror of weakness
I didn’t know how to reflect or point at?
It could’ve been both in a different age surely.
Maybe my spirit that houses my name
was turning the table of insight,
so I can sit upright.
And position myself in a way
that my hands can extend without sweat,
but in doing so I would have to confront
the mirror and wipe with it a gray cloth.
The cloth will act as a lawyer
and smudge it with precise queries.
I’ll tease and tap on its glassy features—
inverting my bright images.
4/9/26