the man in a boy’s façade. 

an exquisite salesperson, a 

fruity hint like citrus.

he thinks with precision,

like a marksman with

his fifteen bullets and his 

quivering mockingbirds,

ejecting fifteen lives without mercy. 

he has plans, verdant fields

of cyanogen and power. 

yet he turns poison into 

antidotes, hatred into coolly candor 

like it was natural chemistry. 


at night, he goes home;

like the rest of us. he takes 

off his bowtie and unfolds

like a piece of origami 

coming to terms with its composure.

he dances when no one 

can criticize with their eyes,

bursting like bitter passion fruit 

deciphering its namesake. he 

loves hugs of all colors,

and feather caps. 

at night, his fangs grow 

and he is an 

emotional vampire, 

dark and deep, abyssal,

and a daydream dressed in 

his nightshade pajamas.


for how do you describe this, 

the quicksand rubbing 

against your ankles, 

running out of time to leave your mark -

when you know that you 

must put your imposter

into view, when you realize

that people will see you the wrong way

because you’re just another face on earth,

that you would be destroyed 

if you were to come out of the 

bubble of light, of innocence, purity

where you cuddled into home?


and then i put pen to paper.

paper is a guarded sanctuary

before dinner; after dinner

it’s the realization of all the feelings

i would prefer to ignore.

everything i scribble is now sacrosanct, 

love and law, vigorous,

fierce, soft, 


closer to truth than 

i can muscle from my memory.

a sign of snow in the Sahara, a flock of geese breathing on the moon, 

the awards of my cursive materializing -

and then, and only then, 

my imposter desiccates into dust 

under the midnight sun.



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