I peek out from the analog…paper skin, bone and water…hue, saturation…body tweaked with vibrance, a layering of edits, revision…revised with dark lines, shades on skin, adjustments…adhered, affixed.
My face, my story, a template, structure of desire, rouge of action…series of alignments…light and color, words to squeeze into a promising book with the softest palms upon its cover.
Truth has eyeshadow on, fiction in a fig leaf…never completely naked. My breath as sweet as apple, hair aglow, you’re reading all the signs, recite. The mirror is surrounded by the brightest lights, in the act of making things up.
My real pixel lips, wet primary colors, loose yarn, no day, no night, no image, words bare
Only a deep, deep spinning