The Prismatic Self

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. --------------------------------------------------------------- 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.