A year scrawls itself behind me

in chalk and in sharpie.

I see myself from the year before

through a terrarium wall.

I put my face to the glass and smudge it.

My eyes blink like a spotted geko–

a horned lizard

under the artificial comfort

of the heat lamp.

I eat the same bagged crickets

crunchy like my dead scales.

She is reptilian.

She is cold skin.

I think of her as the captured

exotic– she dances for me.

I still have the heat lamp.

I still eat the crickets.

I still have cold skin.

Oh everyone is waiting for a midnight

you know?

Even though all

we’ve ever been is a lovely

stack of Matryoshka dolls

painting on a new face

only to stand back and

see that it’s the same

but still

stunning

visage.