MIRROR. A poem by Marie Narelle.


I’ve been told I'm disappointing,
looked at with repulsion,
shame, admiration,
revealing all
with a clarity,
a candour
pulled open like a clam
in the back of cabs
hands reaching for reassurance
rarely receiving it
to steady oneself,
before facing the night
unfalteringly meeting your gaze
You may be flattered

Taps turned
the warm water ceases
hot, wet hands
smear away the steam
from my surface
A moment of purity
simplicity, peace
as naked
eyes meet
pink, flushed faces
dripping droplets

I hang reflecting a
white washed wall
My safe state of repose
until the sun dies
expectations rise
girls gather
as if before an altar
looking at me expectantly
washed clean,
purified by water
heavy now in dresses,
beads, refinery
before the imminent party

Then I am overused,
four faces mirroring mine
mouths twisted, gaping,
eyes shadowed
heavily touched
and blushed
no part left to chance
until the faces that turn
resemble little of their own
tired of this transformation
I darken with the night

until some fool returns
“Am I drunk?”
mumbling at me
slapping themselves theatrically
eyes, dilated, boring into mine
searching for some sign
of soberness
they leave.


'it wasn't for a very long time. But we were conditioned to give pleasure, not to be the receivers. Never fake an orgasm because it will then never get better'. Graphic image by artist @tittyabberton

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