You Fool Yourself Until You Can’t

I dip my fingers into the cold face cream

of the luxury jar to which I return every night

like a believer in a false god

or a lost soul to a fortune teller

before I raise my hand, I scan my face

another day has passed,

the marks are there: a deeper crease,

a darker spot, the folded lips

I made it through, I played my part

and like an actor, I come each night

to my cold cream, to my glass jar

to yet another pointless strive

the cream can’t unroll any crease,

the ointment fails with every wrinkle,

the lotion won’t erase the spot

whether I rub a little or a lot

this useless god to which I come

with hopes to slow the time a little

enters my skin, leaving no trails

other than wordless signs on face:

you fool yourself until you can’t.

Photo via Unsplash.