I step into the cubicle,
innocent and unsuspecting
and see my boyish self:
the mirrored walls reflecting,
and so on...
I pose and posture, playing with the novelty,
a chorus line of unison regiments and ranks:
identical “me”s moving together
in synchronized, choreographed action and gesture,
less focused on my appearance than
upon the fascinating phenomenon,
I step out of my pants,
nervous and self-conscious,
and see the clerk kneeling at my feet,
threading arms and tape around my waist,
breath hot on my skin,
hands running up between my legs,
groping, feeling, fondling, probing...
my feet rooted immovably,
mind and body paralyzed,
mirrors multiplying my image,
going on and on without end,
continuing into infinity,
burning the sight and sensation into memory,
preserved unchangeably, captured and frozen,
beneath the silvered walls of glass.
26 – 07 - 13
Edited by traveler (07/26/13 04:39 PM)
Edit Reason: wrong word
"the scariest thing about abuse of any shape or form, is, in my opinion, not the abuse itself, but that if it continues it can begin to feel commonplace and eventually acceptable."
- Alan Cumming, "Not My Father's Son"