Nemisis in Room 104

For anyone who has ever felt self-conscious, ever.

A single strand of my long, slightly-curled hair
Is plucked
By a screw on the back of my chair and I
Will hold the security
Of the other hairs in the forefront
Of my thoughts
As long as this chair and I
Are on display.
I’m onto you, Chair.

Where I sit,
I am seen.
Draping my hair over my shoulder,
I realize my tag might be showing.
The latch on my necklace
Could be backwards.
And suddenly
I have absolutely no doubt
That my bra-band
Has lodged its way
Into that ideal, awkward
Back fat emphasis location.
Scoff. Damn you, Chair.

I ease my hand up to
Check my collar.
NO. Wait.
What about my chipping nail polish?
What about that funky burn
On my wrist from the curling iron?
Oh, great. Now my foot itches.
My foot itches?
Err! I swear to God, Chair!

I have fungus.
No, I don’t, actually.
That’s just the chair
Trying to throw me off my game.
Nice try, Chair, but you fail.
I didn’t come here today
To sit without purpose.
I should be paying attention
To those lips moving
In the front of the room.

And so,
I do.
I look and listen.
But only because
Here, in the middle of the room,
I can’t shake the feeling
I am

If it was just me and this chair,
In an empty,
Windowless room,
I wouldn’t be this twitchy,
Mess of a girl. No.

I would stomp both feet,
Heave myself into
A standing position,
Toss the desk aside,
And make this chair
Into a stool!

And I would let my hair fall where it pleases.