Evidence of the Body

I found the old ID in a drawer full of batteries.

God, the lighting—that fluorescent, hospital hum

that turns skin into the color of a wet sidewalk.

I look like I’m about to confess to a crime I didn’t do.

The flash caught a patch of shine on my forehead,

a white, wet thumbprint that screams 'unprepared.'

My mouth is a thin line of held-in resentment,

or maybe it’s just the way my face sits when I’m tired.

I went to the bathroom to check the mirror,

to see if I still look that haunted, that small.

I do. But now there’s a new line by the eye,

a little more proof that the photo wasn't an accident.