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

That

I am

Being

Watched.

If it was just me and this chair,

In an empty,

Windowless room,

I wouldn’t be this twitchy,

Nervous

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.