At the mirrors edge I strain to see what else.
Tracing the frame, it’s there I drop out,
into a symmetrical arena.  A personal hell.
Longing for the last after each new bout.
Every contender’s aim is one that can’t be helped.
Shadow boxing polar aspects of myself.  
The only wager is penny-less.
A counterweight to doubt.
When the verdict is in,
who is it that wins out?
The bread winner of recycled debt
owed to the sentinel of the self.
The indelicately celibate
having *** with themselves.
"*******. Thank you."
"*******. Thank you."
*******. Thank you.