Creative Writing, OldVenue

Creative Writing: Narcissus, or lies about desire

Looking at him, I didn’t
know if I wanted to fuck
him or borrow his clothes;
he wore them like his own
skin, as if the very act of doffing
them meant exposing his
identity—as if his skin
was his identity,
his clothes
like the plumage of a flirt
that couldn’t be plucked. I
made furtive glances at him,
as if he was a rippled reflection.
I pictured his unveiled flesh. Was
it me in him, or was it his
reflection that I was looking at?
Would a mutual glance be a tryst
or lies about desire?

11/11/2014

About Author

julesignacio



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