Literary Avoidance of Self.

My hands shake as I grip the pencil, as I go to type, as I clutch my purse.
I think of all the things that could be wrong with me.
Are the cancer cells back?
Has the arachnoid cyst grown?
What new disease is my fate acknowledging?
The answer is none of course.
The “new disease” is one I have fabricated, a myth, a legend.
It nonetheless makes me nervous.
Even the assurance of hypochondria is not warm enough to comfort me on the chilliest nights.
I avoid the fact that I let men see me, their fantasy, their desire.
They rub their hands on their pants and I know they would rather be rubbing their dick on me.
Shame is a powerful weapon.
When ladies wore crinolines and hoop skirts, was it to hide the men going down on them?
Were they unsettled if the public saw the dripping descending down their thighs?
Bullets come at me faster than the realization that I allow myself to be used.
I store up the perfected sexual power for my reserves.
And then I let them go home.
And loneliness settles in.
The floor never felt so comforting.
My body is raw and uncomfortable just like my damaged ego.
Our greatest fears are often the ones we already see in the mirror as we put our hand up to the glass.
Our eyes reveal the pain of giving pieces of ourselves away.
Our lips taste the salt of someone els’s sweat still on them.
Our skin is reddened by the burning of the flesh.
I knew it before I performed my dynamic four part circus act.
The elephants always look the saddest and remember the most.

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