We’re nothing alike, my image and I,
it follows me to the bathroom,
denied access, it waits outside,
I bolt the door
and the world snaps shut!
Muffled sound, flat lined outsiders
expunged from my mind’s persuasion,
I tune into the echo of self-indulgence,
appearing to an audience of one.
No one knows out there,
the fiction writer
hiding behind multifaceted, flawed heroes,
one page short of capture.
A little chastisement
interlaced with, odd winks to myself,
there-there old son,
the reassuring stave-off of madness.
Held together by silicone
this one-liner guy,
is tongue-tied by whispers,
groan through taps & pipes;
“Loser! Loser! picker & chooser”,
and as tiles pull faces,
I wash my own,
to drown them out.
The scales have their say,
but they’re not to be trusted,
I ignore their ‘fat bastard’ taunting
to peer at reflective deception,
and I buy it
with the only currency I hold.
Adjusting to ‘out there’ acceptance
I prepare to re-enter the peekaboo theatre
where no one is real,
least of all myself.