He sits across the table, glowering eyes

like vacancy signs

cutting through Marlboro smokes.

He blights my lips with the ashes

ground in his name.

When he calls for me,

his voice cracks

like ice caving

under my feet.

I remember my name

as long as I still have my face;

at the end

of the night, I will be

a person I’ve dreamed of.

When I laugh, his lips

turn to mine;

when he kisses me, I think I already know him,

his name—

soft as the sounds of stones

striking

a hollow well.

I bleed and he dips his brush.

“Emptiness,” says the monster, “feels like a monster

is wearing

your face,”

and I remember the way my face

velcroed off at his

touch,

his lips like fogged over headlights as the storm and the road

shared secrets. I remember the way

he painted himself

to look just like a mirror,

my own blood reflecting the image

of a man I tried to be.

He calls me by a name

I didn’t ask for. His face

is almost familiar.

Was I finally beautiful?

Would I see my name

on a golden plaque

—before the animal mounts me?

Every man that speaks my name

spits it like a dare,

now I’m asking for something like worship: name me.

I’m asking to be what I wanted of love: transmogrified.

I couldn’t love the Face Stealer, but I tried

all night—

all night.