It wasn’t proper to resist – I could set the self up knowing
that I’d bend the way Narcissus did to get his way and shed
dead skin beneath, lost to any shape of water too attractive
to inflict this new love to; which is why I told myself I’d never
leave the self as you seem wont to do, and conflicted in this
carrying of open frame resume the worship as – near to any
other source of broken comfort I could pass a likeness for,
contemplating short of nature what it means that I might
cause the flesh to bring, certain form in vain of sentience
to mild awareness teeming, most electric to the touch.
For a time I mean to bury it, the body must deserve it;
what is clean is made to hold onto the image I control
the more it breaks, simple by the bare compared and
in rebellion against, the soft it feels – to the fairest mode
of pressure I succumb to as I peel, the layers back.
ysomerkstave 