"The eyes are the windows to the soul"
good thing I have pretty blue eyes?
*******. The soul is the window to the soul
peeked into by watching a life.

Where does the self reside?
in a cardboard box body
dimples marketed to be cherished
a full lipped smile, irises to beguile
this image, lottery identity-

Mine?

Am I supposed to feel lucky?
Arbitrary proportions, is my soul a brunette
are its shoes size 9?
Some assembly required- to be human
words writ to describe this shell
this meaningless husk
puppet jesting at life
feverishly polishing itself
until it cracks, breaks
abstract and
lost.

Does the self wear a top hat
and say: "Here's a hundred years to sell out the show"

"Til death do us part,
my perfection and my soul."

I'll lay out the patio so nicely
they'll never even realize
the host is in absencia, has hidden deep inside

I curse myself for the illusion of aesthetic-

Beauty is the greatest lie

Rid me of the irons to
my body
my name
my poise

imprisoned in this wretched skeleton,
the cage of the soul, the self, the someone
in embryo form
dreaming they're awake

but have never even opened their eyes.