In a Yayoi Kusama exhibit, in New York City,
I can’t see my own reflection in a room full
of mirrors. In this infinite space, at the epicenter
of art and magic tricks, there isn’t room for me.
I convince myself I am happy here. That dizziness,
days curling in on me under cruel lights, is what
I wanted. Starving, I eat photons by the dozen, feel them
glimmer in my rib bones. I throw up
yellow constellations, their reflection tinted red, like
tossed out, unwanted blood. Once, as a child,
I reached into my mother’s pond to grab a handful
of stars in broad daylight but fell into algae-ridden
water, flailed as I thought I would die. I did not die.
Somehow, I am still alive and I have forgotten
what I looked like before my depression. I call my mother
every week, lie about my whereabouts—what is love
but nothing except greed? She begs for me to turn on
the phone camera, just this one time. I refuse:
there is nothing to see. Once, we were stuck in-between
places and we sat on the side of the road. The car
broke down. And all we did was look up. For centuries,
humans lifted their heads and looked for divinity.
We searched to see if there was room for us in the celestial.
Only saw shooting stars, little temptations.
Note: Yayoi Kusama exhibit referenced is EVERY DAY I PRAY FOR LOVE, which was showcased at David Zwirner in 2019.