My facialist’s assistant tells me I am
when she learns I faithfully follow
instructions on the bottle of ABL gel cleanser:

one minute of gentle massaging with only the gel
followed by another minute of massage with wet fingers.

She doesn’t know the other
23 hours and 58 minutes of each day
I send naked photos of myself
to urgent men looking for sex
without exchanging names,

that I sometimes go days without
thinking of my mother
who only died seven months ago,
and that my guilt convinces me
to tell her ghost I love her,
to fool her into thinking
she is always on my mind.

Twice I’ve scratched the car beside me
in the parking lot of Ace Hardware,
then left without waiting for the owner.

Twice I’ve pulled the fire alarm,
in the Bed and Bath department of JC Penney.

In 1989, I pushed my brother in the way
of a closing elevator door.

In 1995, I stabbed him
with a mechanical pencil, 0.8 mm lead.

Then there’s all the peanut butter I eat.

Samantha, I am not good,
though my skin is soft and supple.

I am just like you, gathered
around the burning pentagram
in moonlight, chanting to the gods
for more strength, more power,
more goodness.

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Image: “Color Wheel” by Bill Cawley