I can actually get conscious about myself, and very badly too. Can actually shiver in fury and bleed with tears, breathing curses and reeking love. Sultry girlfriends hover as nightmares and you-were-my-boyhood-sweetheart remarks fall flat without an iota of factual appeal. My vanity crumbles down to pieces, my conceit mistakenly defeated. As if there was nothing behind and nothing in front, just substituted plainness in between.

Waxed legs and transparent straps mock the fuck out of moments.

Curled eyelashes and kohl smudged seductions pass without lines of honor.

Sexy poses and subtle curves appear ordinary. Heads do turn and lousy comments often overheard. But the closest soul fails to take notice. On these days, I actually pass out.