Sitting on the bed I looked into the mirrors on the closet doors that reflected the room and the outside that peeked indoors. I saw my reflection. I was disembodied, no longer in my own skin but there beneath the surface of glass floating on the silver backing. The strawberry blond of my goatee was saturated into a comic orange that made me most displeased. I hate the way I look.
The Poet sat on the ground folding clothes and talking about his boyfriend. I thought how what he feels for his beau I feel for him and I felt so sad. He kept talking and with each sentence I felt worse about myself. I wouldn’t look at him directly. Instead I looked at his reflection in the mirror and then I would look back at mine. I looked at his and then at mine. His. Mine. His. Mine. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my expression. A look of naive tenderness, a look I had never seen painted upon my face. I scared myself.
No matter what I do, no matter what I say, the Poet is NEVER going to feel the way I do. Yet I still hold on to the irrational belief that perhaps he’ll develop feelings for me. I have an attraction to the distant and the unavailable and the Poet embodies the two. I idealize him because I cannot attain him. If by some happenstance the Poet were to fall in love with me I would only push him away because when someone gets too close I become frightened because he might discover that I don’t measure up to “the ideal.” Lately I feel that I’m not special enough to be loved.