Projections on a Small Screen

Who are we, really?

you were small for seventh grade

doll-pretty, you’d be popular

but for the halo of anxiety, a florescent warning buzz.

years later you show up on instagram

rapidfire pose-pout-sex-glam,

codaed by comments like

ur so hot  

my inner church lady wags a bony finger

(she’s the absolute worst, such a prude!)

and i tell her to can it,

but i can’t help but wonder

what/who it is you have turned into,

vamping on rooftops and beaches and even the goddamn louvre which is (finger-wag) sacrilege.  

i saw you yesterday                     

in the flesh,

in the toothpaste aisle.

still small, still anxious, but

in a drab down coat covering boob and thigh.     

i am relieved to learn you are a sheep

in come-hither wolf’s clothing,

but worry i am a wolf

cloaked in shepherd,

inwardly ravening.