Self Portrait
You’re only as good as your last.
—my spine, mid-fold
I enter a contest
like I enter most rooms:
looking for sound no one’s made yet.
I don’t chase strange—
not all weird is created equal.
Once I find it though—
the mirror says submit
the mask says edit
the stage says nothing,
but still demands presence.
I wrap my fear of not-enough
in a metaphor so elaborate
it cues the lighting, files the props list twice,
proofreads the program.
In a backstage mind,
I re-enter my Almost phase—
a trapeze of deadlines,
swinging for an audience who won't remember—
wanting them to see me, follow
my next leap.
I’m not interested in winning per se.
I just need to be undeniable—
objectively worse, isn’t it?
When the wings hum with nerves
the color of gone-sour grapes—
I tell myself, it's not the sh*ttiest piece
you’ve ever written, and the air tastes
like bitten nails, sharp with an apology
I haven’t spoken.
Every poem I send is another version
of myself smuggling me past the velvet rope,
(also me, maybe you) each line
a peeled credential hoping to be let in,
to find others still building their craft
from scraps of broken mirrors.
I almost make it—
then a sense of achewhelming¹ hits:
that breath-stuck thrum when I see
someone seeing too much of me,
and I forget how to hold the sentence.
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¹ achewhelm (n.) — stasis or irregular rhythm of breath that strikes when the self is too exposed to speak clearly; a paralyzing mix of over-recognition and emotional static that derails intention mid-expression.
Copyright © Jaymee Thomas | Year Posted 2025
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