creature of show

i am a creature of show, i dance behind the mirrors i delicately lay out for the world to see me through, sometimes i am beautiful others ugly, tall and thin and mis formed and imposable to chase down in my maze... so much so sometimes i forget which reflection is my own. I dream of someone one day taking the effort to smash and break every mirror, to walk over the broken glass and through the dust to find me... i suppose for that to happen though i would have to exist outside of my reflections... its been so long i think i have become the glass.
does he love me? will i be his wife, the mother to his children, will i live in his home? will he ever touch me again... its so hard to know. i don't know. i don't know if i should. i am lost somewhere far beyond my self.
he sleeps, or jests to sleep now beside me, breathing heavy... not for me just because he smoked to many cigarettes i am sure. will he kiss me when i am done with this and i lean in to whisper i love you... maybe... probity naught more than a peck.
i miss being sated... i think more than anything else in the world... that none of those things will ever happen if he dose not start to touch me on a more regular basis...

there she lay

there she lays, looking on the kitchen counter of the perfect postcard to her perfect world. shes getting older, this becomes more real to her every second she is no more the child she once was, and she may never be again... i know lets play a game of truth, do you know if i am a lie when i say you are the only reason i would ever return to the place i distaste so much. do you know your sweet lips are the reason i could bear to wake through the frigid cold my soul feels there. she looks down at the picture, waking up beside him as she has every other morning. they are not a tryst but a love, a deep and sad love that she knows there is no place for. nothing so beautiful. would he hurt her in the dream, he would never stray he is so perfectly flawed and so beautiful when he is angry, even there she finds pleasure in his rage... beautiful soft cream rage against her dark skin. his body the perfect pitch to her own note. the picture... would it be anything, would life be anything like the picture in her mind. would he hold her at night when she cried, would he tell her her hips are beautiful would he kiss her like she was the only woman in the world he had ever truly loved. would he get on one knee and say, i want you now i want you always come to me come and stay with me. would he know when she was scared, would he help when she was ill. would he appreciate the things she did for him, would he appreciate the fact that she spell checked this before she posted it... would he ever think of her when she was not around... would he dream at night of her laying under him the ocean swimming behind them... would he be moved by her midnight ranting, he will probity never read them.