a curtain of skin is pulled back and we look onto the show beneath. I wish I could take myself off like a queen does her lashes. scrubbing at layers with a baby wipe to reveal more layers. a russian doll of a thousand her's, go deep enough do the her's become him's or do the the you's become me's or do the them's become us?

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the lights are hot and under the sticky glow bodies melt and fall into one another. we are losing where you end and I begin. every inch of you is a mirror. we spin in a never-ending cascade of shedded skins and eschewed egos. an amorphous, bleeding, pulsing shape. a shape of us?