Dystopia of Self

He can't look at that girl in the mirror.

Not today.

He loves her dearly but

Today

There are parts he’d rather not see.

His head spins with the ringing of that air raid siren that blares with a passing glance.

A tsunami of disgust and frustration

Battering the sands of that village, casualties will be innumerable.

Why the fuck does she have these parts? Cling to those parts? Adorn those parts?

They aren't hers to have.

Vestigial and burdensome, wants them to fall off in sheets of radioactive flesh.

Wants her eaten away by maggots and flies like the corpse she is. The corpse she will create if she inhabits much longer.

Those bits of mortem don't match him.

He tries to iron her out,

to tuck her away,

to layer enough lead and leather and dirt and mask,

to hide the pieces

that are so sharply correct yet incorrect.

A life inhabiting another’s skin.

Discomfort and a general ick stick to his shoulders and chest, the remanence of her ash, erupted four million times over.

Clings to him like tar, searing on her foreign thighs, hips, cheeks, disentigrating that milky whiteness away into char.

He takes a shower and inhales the steam. The mirror fogs. Condensation at last.

Something will hold onto something, at least.

The clouds of fall out around the dystopia of freckles, scars, limbs disappears under the rubble of forgetfulness and a lack of self.

He points his focus on the water flowing over the body he’s been given.

When I leave this misty place, forced awake from my stupor, those oppressive eyes will gaze back at me from the clearing glass.

I try to love her. When I see her, I tell her so.

The wasteland of a person.

But today, I stand in the shower a moment longer.