Looking in a mirror and seeing “sexy” staring back.
That objective kind.
You type you’d get in line for just to request to sign that devilish line.
Soul sold to rock the best behind.
Where clothes fit. Like…FIT.
Exposed tit becomes prose.
Bulges in shirts flirt with the essence of a Marvin Gaye serenade.
Imagine being fine.
Finer than a motherfucker.
A strut. A gait.
Exchanging fuck faces.
I’m plain. Faceless.
“Dad body” extraordinaire.
Born to bear the lack of horny glares.
Imagine being comfortable in a skin painted with the love-bites of the conquered.
Being a portrait of the exquisite.
And sure, I’ve had girls kiss it better.
And when they exit, my reflection etches an ode to the ugly on my ribs.
I get “cute”.
As though that doesn’t resonate with mediocrity.
“Cute” is that song you don’t quite dance to anymore.
I want to be hot.
I want to be handsome.
I want to get panties wet with the prospect of my hidden intimacy.
Take me at face value.
Forget me in the morning.
I want you to love lust as much as you lust love.
The thrust, fuck of that single night of passion.
And I’m not asking.
I’m not begging.
I just imagine being beautiful…
When the mirror has me stressing.