In the mirror I see you, your eyes hunting hungrily over the disintegrating field of my body. You’ll find strands of my voice festooning the moist air. Mortality is a song in the back of my throat, resonating like a mating call. Come and die… those who would save their lives will lose them. Beyond the mirror, a window to my childhood self struggling to jump rope with future artists and pornographers. The way the lines blur is like a frosted coating on the eye, concealing Beauty who has fled from art and been butchered by the culture as the world devours us. Each girl out the window is a house of pain, a girl shaped container of longing for what we did not know. Now I know, and I flee the democratized lovelessness of ephemeral expectation.
Miniature Moon 