An old man, hair combed, staring right at you.

Assembling my thoughts with tweezers and mirror.

Drum roll up to the first wretch.

Peel off the masks, one after another.

And biting; biting down hard.

We'll have a bite contest later. Remind me.

Going through the photos in my wallet of each beloved bruise.

Houses labeled, “Liar.”

And a swift denial of the color orange.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

View all posts

Add comment

Your email address will not be published.