Wrong Way Around

The diner had that smell—old grease and coffee

that's been sitting on the burner since six a.m.,

and they gave me a metal spoon, a real one,

heavy, the kind that clanks against the cup

and makes the waitress look over

like you're doing it on purpose.

I stirred.

And there I was.

Upside down in the back of the spoon,

my nose enormous, my forehead

shrunk to a sliver, my eyes

two dark seeds pushed too close together,

and behind my head the fluorescent bar

smeared into a bright wound

across the ceiling of my face.

An hour earlier someone told me

I don't come across the way I think I do.

They said it gently, which was worse,

the way you'd tell a person

their fly's been open all morning—

not cruel, just late.

And I wanted to argue

but I was staring at myself

in the spoon, all wrong,

and I thought: what if the spoon

is closer to it,

what if everyone has been seeing

this version—nostrils flared, brow gone,

a mouth too wide and slightly

open like I'm always about to say

something I haven't thought through yet—

I put the spoon down.

Drank the coffee black.

The waitress asked if I needed anything

and I said no so fast

she didn't even finish the question,

which is probably

exactly what they meant.