the gleaming depths appear to be a window
into one’s own soul. the brittle, dark pieces
who shelter filthy playthings. the unholy of devices
angels scorn at when they see.

airbrushed fingertips trail caresses into whimpers,
reining power over carefully timed indentations,
creeping up between thighs of eyes that stitch shut
amongst each thrusted I love you’s.

often, it conceals the unseen memories of
blood and grizzly teeth, of wrists bleeding purple,
of mouths that beg and plead against the shattering of ribs
as carpets tear through unarmed knees, he says
if you don’t stop struggling, I’ll be sure to put you at ease.

the irony bounces between the four panes whispering
how I am utterly insane, integrating the day I laid
frozen in my makeshift grave into each intimate memory
I hold of the ones I’ve loved to date.

while my ribs bruise the breaths I take and my knees
fold up each violet mark, they scorn at me from within,
even the angels can’t save you from this sin.
I betray the body I live in.
I betray the mirror I live in.