NaPoWriMo #4: Forehead

I looked at my tremendous forehead
in the mirror and decided that love
was impossible if I crushed the faces
of my dates when we tried to sleep.
A monstrosity, that's what I was,
the beast in that movie, though I did
nothing wrong, wanting to shave off
the layer of flesh I never needed.
It wasn't always like this: once
my head was puny, it hung
on the sad stalk of my neck.
I wished for a more important look
that others would be inspired by.
I woke up in the morning feeling
hurt, as if someone had stapled
stone on top of my weak body,
as if my time for a grave
came early, and I was going
to have to say my own eulogy.
Now all I do is seek out
a hammer than can break
me down, that will not be
too noisy for the neighbors,
but will perform the job quickly.
I desire more human contact
than being brushed next to
on the subway, passengers deep
in their gadgets and newspapers
so no one notices my suffering
at all, as if I was a natural
wonder that had become mundane,
my geysers of pain spraying each hour,
constant enough for life to ignore.