And here I am again

with my mirror image

in female form.

I can’t tell her

how everything she does,

everything she says,

writes, thinks, feels

confirms that she’s the one for me,

that our pasts are linked like chains

running through the haze of time,

that when I’m with her,

all of the wrong in my life

feels right.

All the pain and stacked up sorrow,

heartbreak, addiction, suffering;

it all fades into the shining moment of now.

I can’t tell her

how I want her to stop wasting time

with guys who are no good for her

and start being with the one man

who would do anything in his power,

give up anything

to try to make himself perfect

for her.

Who would drive any distance,

climb any mountain,

run any marathon

to be closer to her.

I can’t tell her that.

So I’ll just smile and say hi,

share a firm hug,

and call her friend,

wearing the most painful mask

I’ve ever had to wear,

hoping it’ll hide the tears.

My grandparents. They are conservative, Fox 'news' watching, trump supporting, LGBTQIA+ hating, people. I love them, I do, I can't blame them for the way they were raised, but still, ignorance does not excuse racism. People are raised with toxic ideas all the time, and once they are adults, it is up to them to educate themselves.

My school. I go to a predominately white school, with a Native American as my mascot, I am used to pretty ignorant people, I hear the N-word and F-word thrown around like it's nothing, and the teachers do nothing about it. My classmates have said blatantly racist things to me, and I always, and I mean always, feel that I am in the wrong for taking it seriously as if I am the problem.

My point? I have to watch my mouth in front of my grandparents, I can't even discuss race unless I am prepared for them to spin it into some kind of debate. I also have to watch my mouth at my own school. Even in front of my all-white friends. For some odd reason, I feel invalid for talking about race in front of my own friends! I feel guilty for censoring a big part of me. I am a victim of racism all the time, and yet, if I talked to my grandparents about it, they would explain it away. If I talked to my friends about it, they would quickly change the subject. Even now I feel someone is going to defend them, I don't know, it's f*cked up.

The day it came to this

My insides twisted

Heartless torsion of panicked walls

Kinking intestinal fortitude

Powerless in pain

Sounds within presage

The chaos in my mind and gut

That comes from hurting you

Hurts me more than you

The cliché that rings true

In unfairness shared between us

In cruel obstruction

The detente that establishes

Patency for the bile, yellow and black

To pass unhindered away from us

Reaffirms forgiving laxity

She sits in a bluegray Virginia Slim cloud.

Through the haze, I can see eyes that were once sharp, but had become sharpened.

Past the smell of old smoke and new, her perfume speaks of some promises kept, but mostly of ones broken. Whispers of what might be and what could have been weave themselves into an olfactory babble wafting on a Davidoff wind.

Cool Water and dried hopes.

Standing, she slices me with her gaze. I imagine her imagining me bleeding on the sweaty sheets.

"We should do this more often," she lies.

"We will," I lie right back.

Every time I have been hurt or torn down,

I cannot let others see

so when I am just a pile of rubble,

I go and appear as if I am a building.

I smile, but want to cry.

I say I am fine, when I want to hide.

She galavanted around the shared household, showing everyone what she had won. Woos and awes were heard from each corners of the living room while everyone of us stared and complimented her accomplishment.

I was happy for her, I needed to be happy for her. She was one of my best friends and sisters. Not being happy for her meant that I’m the bad friend and I couldn’t be bad because I was happy for her.

I smiled and even voiced out a little compliment about her winnings and tried to mean it as much as possibly could, but I noted the exact opposite.

She sat next to me and rambled on about how great she felt and that she’d like for us to celebrate that night but I just wanted to exit that space as quick as humanly plausible.

Why did I smile but all I felt was grass green with envy? Why did I wish she had nothing to ecstatic about? I WAS HAPPY FOR HER.

My life has been spent behind a bunch of personality masks. The purpose of each mask depends on the demands being placed on me at that moment. Of course, there are the standard basic existence masks that get me through each day. These masks include the, "At Work Mask," the, "Extended Family Mask," the, "Have to Be a Responsible Dad Mask" and the "Spouse or Intimate Partner Mask." Then there is the Upstanding Citizen Mask reserved for those times where I need to cover up the shit show that is me with pretty paper and a big fucking bow so that I appear to be a sane and functioning adult. To find the real me one would have to remove several masks in a Scooby Doo-like mystery reveal (I woulda gotten away with it if it weren't for those pesky kids). Otherwise, it is only in those rare, wake up at 2 am and think about things nights when the authentic, commode filling shit extravaganza that is Shallowgenepool can be brought to light, complete with the embedded partially digested corn kernel fragments.

Of the masks, my At Work Mask is the most conservative. Not only does this mask provide the illusion that I know what the fuck I'm doing at my job, it also keeps my sense of humor from ending my career prematurely. To prevent sudden periods of unemployment, attached to the mask are restraints designed to muffle such outbursts as, "I'd rather give a sexually frustrated gorilla a hand job than go to this meeting" or "Well dress me up like a Swiss milkmaid and spank me until I yodel that's good news!" The typical restraint set up used to hold back such job ending declarations include: muzzle, shock collar, choke chain, ball gag, several layers of duct tape securing said ball gag (I prefer latex-free, size medium) in place, and the whole thing is encased in razor wire. These precautions are absolutely essential because if I said anything close to what I write about on Prose I would immediately be charged with sexual harassment against men, women, the color copier, and probably the potted plants. In addition, a restraining order would be obtained post-haste and I would be black balled in perpetuity from the social work profession. So, an At Work Mask is essential if I want to stay amongst the gainfully employed.

Thankfully, my Extended Family Mask has been all but retired. I don't have to use this mask because I go out of my way to avoid contact with my extended family like a wounded gazelle avoids contact with a clan of hyenas. I figure if I wanted to see carnies, circus freaks, and the runners up for the Miss Gravel Road Trailer Park Pageant (sponsored by Mountain Dew and the local union shop of porta-potty and septic tank maintenance workers) I could go to a county fair. When my grandparents passed there was no longer any reason to risk lowering my already borderline IQ by spending another minute with the chapter of an abnormal psychology text book that is my aunts, uncles, and cousins.

My Have to be a Responsible Dad Mask is probably the mask that is worst fitting. Since my examples of child rearing could be categorized somewhere between the Manson Family and the Addam's Family I feel greatly inadequate for the task. So, I follow my wife's lead. When I respond to a request from one of my spawn with, "Go ask mom" it isn't lazy parenting, its that I don't have a fucking clue as to what I should tell them. This must work at least a little because I have 4 kids (16, 14, 12, and 4) and none of them are on house arrest, pregnant, or addicted to anything. I guess so long as my kids don't add to crime rate and teen pregnancy statistics my, "Chuck and Duck" parenting style will have to work.

The Mask that is closest to the train wreck that is the real Shallowgenepool is my, Spouse or Intimate Partner Mask. Eighteen years of laughing, crying, fucking, and stumbling through life together has managed to shed most of the bullshit that hides whoever I am from her. What little mask remains helps me to protect my wife's world view which is more Louis Armstrong's "What A Wonderful World" where mine is more, Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" or "Fairy's Wear Boots." There is no reason for her to adopt my darker, more cynical world view. Her courageous optimism is one of the reasons I love her so much. They say your spouse is your better half. Nope, not even close. My petite Irish wife is my better nine-tenths. I am so out of my league its pitiful. For some reason she traded down. Our backgrounds couldn't be more different. She's a pastor's granddaughter whose parents have been married for over 40 years. Me, I took second runner up for junior Antichrist and my parents relationship was a one night stand that turned into 2 years of misery plus 1 disabled child. In short, the mask pretty much comes off when I am with my wife. As sweet and loving as she is, she doesn't allow my trailer park emotional baggage to fuck things up and dog bless her for it.

Just like the name brand, fruit flavored lube that only gets used on anniversaries (Target brand lube being the usual), my Upstanding Citizen mask only comes out on special occasions. This mask is designed for pure deception. For example, when my wife and I were standing before the family court judge on the day we adopted our youngest, every instinct in my body said, "RUN!" Genetically speaking, my family is predisposed to answering to the title of, "Defendant" in court rooms. As a result, my sympathetic nervous system goes into flight mode, my muscles tense, and my heart rate increases in preparation for me to run and/or get tased by the bailiff. Thankfully this mask hid my instinctive terror and allowed me to assume the guise of a respectable adoptive parent in front of the judge.

So, I wear multiple masks and for good reason. They allow this bald headed deviant to function in a world without getting the Frankenstein's monster treatment of having peasants come after me with torches and pitch forks. Like the need to wear an athletic supporter after a vasectomy, the masks aren't comfortable, but they are necessary. So, during my 2 am pure Shallowgenepool moments I find myself counting my blessings. The hopeless, poor, bucktoothed, Forest Gump leg brace wearing, and devoid of self-worth 10 year old me would be shocked to see where I am now. During these late night moments of clarity I tell the ten year old me to avoid self-pity and to design his future masks carefully because his current Trailer Park Welfare Statistic mask is eventually going to get too tight and he will eventually be able to leave that mask behind.

Today was Friday, it was one unending chaos in my mind. I spent the whole day thinking it was Thursday, and I don’t know why it’s such an unsettling feeling to realize you have been living the wrong day, but it is.

I didn’t eat breakfast or lunch, and have been doing that for a while. Yet I feel sicker and look worse. Is it my eyes or my body that’s changed? But it’s a game, a competition, keeping it to myself.

You sit on the floor around my bathroom door between the carpet and tile, like edging on entering. Like preparing to escape when needed. I am putting on layers and layers of different obnoxious lipstick shades, because I own them and never wear them.

You tell me all the things I “must be feeling” in your condescending tone. when I answer with silence, you change strategies. “Well I can’t read your mind. Communicate”.

this feels like a bad dream, like I am being fed lines, and there is nothing else to say. Like I already know what happens and have to let it play out. So I say what I do every Friday to you.

“I am just making it through the day the best that I can.”

The lipsticks are bleeding into each other. I like to think this is a once in a lifetime color combination on my lips right now. I could be kissing someone and pressing this unique shade along their cheeks.

You are pulling open my drawer of pills. “What the hell. It’s like you’re a pill bottle hoarder. These are all empty, why?”

I look into my own eyes in the mirror. She doesn’t look real. What is our next line?

“Oh, I am keeping track of all the meds I‘ve taken. the dates are on the bottles. It’s just helpful for organizing.”

You don’t need to know that they are collecting in that drawer until I can string them on a rope and hang them like decor. It’ll make a real statement: “I’m in pain!”

You shut the drawer making a tsk sound with your mouth. And you run a finger across the surface of my baseboards. I hate when you do that, as if the dust is testament of my failure. in the mirror I give myself a resolute nod, and remind myself I am not a homemaker. I am not my mother. I don’t need to clean my baseboards. But the reminders aren’t helping.

As I am rolling the tubes of lipstick back in color order, I can feel you behind me standing up. Walking around my apartment to observe things. My dusty books, the half-written journals jotted with angry handwriting, empty crusted-over bottles. These socks I have worn for three days, the holes stretching in them. Me.

We are all under your scrutiny.

I feel like a slimy specimen between two panes of glass, under a microscope. I feel like a germ or a mold, something you watch with disgusted fascination as it rots. You make me feel this way, and you do it every Friday.

When I watch my smeared mouth in the mirror, I wonder if it will open of its own accord and tell you how much I hate Fridays and you. Your eyes are lingering behind my shoulder still, waiting for the first mistake to be uttered. But if I speak or remain silent, I’m already in the wrong. I have already failed you with my existence.

I'm not asking you to save me, but maybe just turn your eyes away.

My grin is so wide and I laugh at your jokes

You would never know inside that I feel so broke.

Dancing and singing, and having such fun

But inside I feel like I need to run

I put on a brave face for all of my fam

but my heart and my soul feel so damned.

You say I am happy, funny, and not shy

but inside I feel that I should just die.