con artist

Why do I con?

I con myself first
then my so called friends
strangers
the bartender who slides me another extra dry martini
while pretending not to notice.

I wear my fur
my all black clothing
as if I am always on my way
to a funeral.

Every time I con someone
I erase a small piece of myself
a quiet amputation
I grieve later
alone.

Faux or real
it hardly matters.
I wear both on my body.

I crave attention
with a hunger that embarrasses me.
Yet the moment it arrives
every nerve in my body recoils.

It takes effort
not to drag myself into the spotlight
but when the light finally hits
it blinds me.

It is what I ask for
and what I instinctively push away.

I cannot stand
being real in the eyes of other people.

So I perform a mess
a curated one.

My life is so small
but I inflate it
like a balloon animal
made for strangers.

Everything comes naturally
yet every movement is forced.

Why do I rely so easily
on the kindness of strangers
when I offer them
so little kindness in return?

I am self absorbed in every direction
yet with the bodies I have loved
I have given everything.

I get so close to my own agenda,
close enough to taste it
then I detonate it in my own hands
and crawl into whatever hole
is left behind.

I write.
I produce.
I curate.
I star
in the films I project
inside my own skull.

And sometimes
I remember the little boy
I abandoned
inside the mold stained walls
of a beach house in my hometown.

I sit before my magic mirror
and try to summon him.

We never get along.

First he only stares.
Then he screams
in a language
I no longer remember.

I watch him rot there,
slowly decaying
in front of me.

I watch him
turn into ash.

And I wonder
What he was like when he was alive