Why is it, when I attempt anything important to me, I must undergo metamorphosis?
Seeing my own reflection in the screen instead of ideas,
that at all other times, will sprout as spiteful as cornflowers,
I find a neon-blinded foul thing troubling to tolerate,
and still, I can't look away.
As if it were Medusa, not Narcissus, enraptured by their own image,
horrified or full of pity for it, and in either instance,
unable to stop the process
as it slowly but surely turns to chalk.