I hate the flecks of mascara clinging to my lashes in the morning afters. I pick them off in monotony and look at my warped face in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed but my eyes are heavy, hanging in the middle of my face like they’ve been positioned slightly astray.
I look through myself, trying to see what you see, or how you see me. Trying to imagine the light in the bedroom and how it will drape over me. My body is raw and rude in the overhead glare, my hair tangled, a collection of skin and muscles and ripples of blonde fuzz giving themselves back to me.
I let my hands dance down my body, holding contact with my spent eyes, wanting to understand what you feel when you touch me. I let my mouth part, exhale softly, trying to force the instinctive gasps into visibility, trying to witness. I rinse the remaining marks down the drain, watch them coast into absolution, my eyes a little softer than before.
The first time you stood in the mirror behind me, I felt a brief panic — realizing I had never seen us together before that clearly. Our materiality felt subjective up until that point, like a question I hadn’t considered asking. I wanted to ask you how you felt, but I just looked at your mouth in the mirror while you spoke instead.
