Mid-October’s lock screen reads

“Don’t fuck with my energy,”

And I don’t know how to diagnose


Narcissism. Maybe memorizing

Gone Girl’s “Cool Girl” finally went

To my head. Maybe my head’s


Already lost. Someone give me an

In-flight magazine before the crash.

I secretly like things without taste.


I am only ever creative in the art

Of self-defense. Badassness comes

When you look like a girl you would


Step away from. Don’t imagine what

It would be like to love you. Googling

Symptoms of “masking” but refusing


To believe bullet-pointed lists. I can’t

Keep a straight face when I lie. It’s all

“I have nothing to hide!” except for


A face behind a face. Return again to 

Narcissism. If only I could hold faith

In self-importance. I strongly believe


In smallness. Normality has been grossly

rehearsed, picked out the night before.

I am nothing but the clothes I wear. These


iPhone alternations feel like when I dye

My hair, or rotate the soul—

unexpected, but with control.


Kallen Mohr

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