Reflective Surface

It’s two in the morning and I’m tearing the roll,

trying to cover the remains in the bowl.

The sound is a gunshot, a silver-toothed scream,

shattering whatever was left of a dream.

I smoothed out a sheet that was used once before,

wiped off the grease but it’s scarred to the core.

It’s a map of old dinners, of heat and of salt,

a crinkled confession that everything’s my fault.

Then the teeth of the box—that serrated, mean edge—

caught the side of my thumb like a jagged rock ledge.

I’m bleeding on leftovers, standing alone,

while the foil reflects a face not my own.