I hope your glass walls don’t turn into mirrors

A video poem about love, lust, and "distortion"...

A video poem about love, lust, and “distortion”…

I hope your glass walls don’t turn into mirrors;
I don’t think your eyes can take the sight
of your truth being naked,
your colours being true,
or the fallacy of the metal sheet you threw on yourself
as a decoration.
For your information,
gold knows no rust – it knows no rot.
I hope your glass walls don’t turn into mirrors for, even worse,
you might actually like what you see.
You’ll get that urge to approach, the urge to explore,
the urge to find more
Intrigued, mystified – in lust, in lust
In love, in…love? In what you mistake for love.
I see you, experienced I am 
Raising your object of admiration onto a pedestal,
Circling around it, scrutinizing its every side
Revering, worshipping – I feel you.
That sense of heat starts perfusing your being.
You’re not burning, you’re boiling
You’re boiling in lust, you’re boiling in lust
You’re boiling in love, you’re boiling in…love?
You’re boiling in envy.
Awestruck. You bow, you bend, drop on your knees,
Forehead touching the ground
One hand caressing your holy idol, the other
sawing the base of its throne
Silently, slowly, hedonically
As if your most intense climax depends on the magnitude of that fall
And, at last, when it’s found perplexed and face-down on the floor
Then you unfold
Stand stretched beside it, solemnly asking:
“Who stands tall now, huh? Who-Stands-Tall?”
I see you, I know you – restless, envious, insecure
Turning your love object into a road to stage your parade
Shoes dirty, feet stomping, pounds resonating from every corner of your boxed world
A clamor convenient, racketing distraction, the perfect soundtrack
for forgetting, for distorting the facts, for weaving the plot to convince everyone
plus yourself – why not – that you had been a victim
And how unfair it is, that what you were forced to believe it was perfect 
was nothing but flawed, it was fake, it was weak, and look! now it’s broken
You fool – can’t you see that the only thing broken is the single part of yourself
you’d had any right to be proud of?
Oh, I hope your glass walls don’t turn into mirrors
For I was never one for revenge and – had I been – 
I’d be more than content with the knowledge that, despite its eloquence,
your treason was feeble 
– my intact height can attest to that – 
But, what does make me sad is that 
of all the possible ways of fornication
you played all your artistry into fucking me up.
** Featured image by Barthelemy de Mazenod on Unsplash