Figure

I sketch out a face that resembles mine a little. The eyes are eggs, but I've been cracking. Teeth are chisels I've used to make a sculpture of fate. Cheeks resemble the wings of jumbo jets, roaring for lift off into faith. The hair is falling out, even as I try to stay in line, thinking I'll get something good if I'm patient. The teacher says that's a nice art project, a B grade; I'll have to try a little harder if I want an A. I never believed that was possible, although perfection was the scary twin who badgered me down the halls, whispered the secret I wasn't going to exist. If my hand drops my from my body, I don't know whether I should pick it up again. Hasn't it done enough damage? The lines on the paper are misting. Pencil marks become gas, the face sparks into a ring of fire.