I can’t see myself

                  with my hands in my pockets

                  I’ve grown so used to the fabric on my ;

                                                      back, legs

                  they might as well be air

 

I can’t see myself without

                  a reflection

 

Without : a freshly cleaned window

                                    A newborn puddle, a rain

                                                      drop 

                                                                        the broken mirror of a misty road

 

                                    How can you know someone you can’t see?

 

I’ve grown used to my voice

       -- mind tuning it out like the dull drone

                                    of a midwestern wind

 

I only hear myself when I whisper

                                                                        ;strangely;

whispers carry further than words

 

I can only hear in a cave

                  maybe  empty stairwells

                                    convenience stores at 2:00 AM

 

and that summer silence that makes it feel like 

you’re wearing earmuffs

                                                      skin extending in tired breeze

 

I first heard my voice 

                  through a musty speaker

                                    a cluttered elementary classroom

 

I hate microphones

                                    How can you know someone you can’t see?

                                                      I can’t recognize their voice ;

 

sometimes my soul runs away

                  a monarch flirting with the pecan tree

                  or a word snagged on the tip of 

                                    a wrinkled tongue 

 

I can’t look in a mirror

                  and see myself

 

can’t sing to a clear night sky

                                                      and expect a conversation

 

I can’t look myself in the eye

                  only look through 

I’m stuck behind glass

 

I’m stuck in a mirror

                                    trapped in old recordings on cheap USB drives

 

                                                      caught between ponds and puddles
 

                                                                        the bars of a framed photograph 

 

My touch is lost

                  gone in the reflection

                                    of dusty piano keys 

                                                      fingerprints on sliding glass doors

 

 

** Fingerprints was published in The American Anthology of High School Poetry and was the Topical Winner in the “My World” category.