Some men bolt mirrors to the ceiling, need to catch
themselves mid-act and find it good,
need to watch the rendering of a man
who moves through the world like he owns it.
I know that hunger. I know how it gnaws.
I put up a ceiling fan instead.
After years of the mirror kicking my ass,
I chose the blade that cools the room
over the glass that froze my blood.
My face is my face. It’s the one I’ve got.
It’s hauled me further than it should have,
given where I started, given what I had
to work with against the beautiful world.
My face got me here. Here isn’t bad.
But it isn’t the face I would have chosen.
Not the one that opens doors,
not the one that doesn’t need a ceiling mirror
to feel real for three seconds in the dark.
I’m making my peace with the glass.
The years of measuring against beautiful—
I’m done with the long accounting.
Doneing myself through the sieve of comparison.
Some men need to see themselves from above,
confident, assured, a man who looks right.
I needed to stop looking altogether.
The mirror on the ceiling is the one I’ll bury.
I took mine down before I ever hung it there.