Lens
Each day is digested through a distorted lens—
One that stretches my picture in the mirror—
One that takes its toll and leaves its mark.
A glass so sharp, it cuts.
But you have enough blood to keep up the illusion of health.
The lens curves up from its thinnest edges at the perimeter
To its most obtuse and salient feature—the focal point
That lives in the center of the lens. That defines the photograph.
But what good is a focal point if the picture it produces
Is warped?
Orthorexia—the child who dropped the lens.
A reflection can’t be wrong, says the lens
Who projects a warped photograph onto the body.
But the repair bill is too expense, so I’ll keep on.
Where am I in the picture?
Distorted and standing between the shards of broken glass
That transform me into 116.8 pounds of fat and bones and skin and hate.
It’s not so much a rejection of Truth,
As it is a rejection of myself—
My worth, my image, the effect I have on others.
And yet, I know Truth.
She is skilled with her hands. She assembled the camera.
She is patient and compelling,
But she doesn’t care how you feel.
And she doesn’t know the lens.
I see another image.
Projected onto a rectangle measuring 35 millimeters diagonally,
I see myself. I am thin. I fell on the ground.
I’m dying, says the lens.
I’m here, says Truth—
The sound of my Dad screaming
As he sees his son fall on his bedroom floor.
My recovery begins here.
As my mind transforms itself into pen marks
In the journal given to me by someone who cares,
The lens falls off the table and shatters again.
I pushed it off. I destroyed it. And I created a new ideology
By synthesizing my thoughts into poems and songs.