What I Love about Myself I Look for in Others

by Phillip Schaefer

Definitely not the hair. And not these chicken wire
ribs. Still deciding on fight or flight but then again who isn’t
sometimes all fist no fury. All citrus no flame.
I’ve given up on the rationalists and the witches. Definitely
never having kids except maybe one or six. Let’s adopt
a new theory about symbiosis: the drapes usually don’t match
the drugs. Definitely no synthetics unless in fungus
form. When I look through the portal of the bathroom
mirror and find nothing but two wet stones, onyx
or otherwise, I want to drop them in the spandex pocket
of a stranger and watch someone else’s life slip
between rooms and alleyways and the fertile hands
of a better man. I am not looking for hard cash but I am
soul broke. Here’s a good one: If you were a television character,
who would you shoot first in real life? Weighted dice,
I know. At night when I take off my shoes and my head
and place my chest like a book on the bedside table
there’s a little flicker just floating in the air like a humming
bird. My ears circle it like satellites, waiting for the answer
to anything. The truth? Everyone is beautiful enough for me
to destroy. My heart, my heart, don’t look too far.