I See Myself in Everything

I endure my arrogance like a leftover twin absorbed during gestation, seeing myself in everything, not only the eyes that watch me rocking back and forth in a corner in order to flip my house right-side up. What’s left on the roadside is me, too. I am wholly grateful for the retrospect when I listen, slump-cheeked and reddening with introspective embarrassment, dumb as an eyeball glaring down the barrel of a mandatory gavel, self-awareness knows when you know they got you. Argumentation is the art of capitulating as a sail pulling down your head in a strong wind, it's knowing when to go method, get Zen. It is the biggest picture, zoomed in to view a passage, out to capture rainfall in a tarp, knowing the ocean won’t miss a few drops, let's call it a potion. Of my arrogance and I, our story, I will it to the lowest bidder, as sinners seeking asylum in an empyrean reliquary, only the meek may enter, my barrier is wrestling whether an artist should be making their own bed in the morning like a rusted hinge I stay pinned to the mattress grasping at a careworn comforter, with both hands weighing the gravity of the imbalance, the divisions of labor unfavoring the languishing necessary to push past the paralysis. I will that our seizing be taken for breathing and leaves us to being, finally, at rest with ourselves. Without intervention of opinion, although taken with salt, is a different flavor of reason that brings us to an alphabet soup I see myself in, because this soup, too is part of the arrogant everything I earlier mentioned is my twin.