What will happen once my forced obedience dwindles to restlessness? If that has already become, why do my eyes linger on your collarbone? I have been told that I live as a stranger to my desires, indulgence may be the only way through the tunnel. Mother and whore inwardly battle as meditation turns more tedious by the hour. What may be observed when the ego matches the persona? 

Left in limbo, the girl wants for nothing. Youth is her only backbone; age will be the greatest enemy. Not the lines of birds stretching from her tear ducts, but the loss of fresh outlook. 

I have deemed myself Virgin of all, looking through new eyes every time I blink. 

Little resentment, much solicitude fueled by the drawers above my eyebrows. A girl has reversed her decomposition, and yet again, a Virgin emerges from the ashes. What if I am nothing special? A thin, sturdy window separates me from view, nothing can touch my delicate skin. There is always a glare on that window, so I tend to stay within so my vision is clear.

I am my own jailer. 

The warden of the echo chamber I find myself in every morning. I will never cower at the entity we call Growth; she birthed me and will be my demise. Forcing Seppuku is my guess. I will live forever with who I have created, my better twin. The one I have curated, she who is whole. I sleep next to my image every night. I am here to be consumed wholly and with a smile. Let me become obsolete. 

My seduction is for sale.