I have (modal confusion)

I have
a secret infatuation
with the pictures I paint the world
of who I wish
I was.

It’s a subtle transformation
of moments into snapshots,
laughter into glittering proof
of something, no one knows
quite what – I wish it were happiness,
that would be so much simpler,
wouldn’t it?

It’s a silent conversion
of memories into commodities
like books with bejeweled spines
I’d put on my shelf
but only if they’d make me
seem better
than they make me feel.

It’s a graceless transmutation
of a peace blind to time into a losing battle
against the very impermanence
that allows its existence,
a crusade to solidify
it so it can’t die, as if nothing
is real that is not tangible, that cannot be
poked and prodded,
envied and objectified.

It’s a desperate reconstruction
of life into a story I wouldn’t
be ashamed to tell but should
be ashamed to live, and live it? Oh,
I have.

/cristina