I stare at myself in my full length mirror,
sheer red, black filigree, soft heavy breasts held high, on a platter.
Fine, black stockings coating smooth legs,
dark lace, milky thighs, creamy round bottom peeking from behind.
Silky blonde hair swept up in a bun,
simple mascara, cherry gloss, a few pinches of the cheeks.
I rise on tip toes to lengthen the effect,
how I wish I had a sexy pair of fuck me pumps.
But, how could he resist? He wouldn’t resist.
I’ve given all the signals…
He knows I want to play…
I step out, into the chill of our large bedroom,
waiting to fill his vision,
walking toward him when he doesn’t notice.
Finally, standing before him, screaming at him in my mind,
Notice me, please don’t hurt me, Notice me!
Deer in headlights, as blank as could be.
Why is he surprised but not happy? His response, or lack of one, derails me.
I arrange myself on the pillows as he finishes his bedtime routine,
I wouldn’t have cared if his teeth were unbrushed.
But it gives me a moment, to swallow the hurt,
to refuse rejection, it has no place here.
He flips off the light.
Always in the dark.
Does the mirror lie to me?
Is it a false reflection I see?
Why doesn’t he want me?
Why don’t you want me?
I do, he says.
But the rejection sits there, on my chest.
In this place where it shouldn’t be allowed.
And I get angry with the mirror.
As he climbs on top of me,
God Damn that mirror.
That stupid, mocking, false mirror.
Another old draft that I don’t want to delete… The mirror still mocks me sometimes.