Someone’s always watching. Think about it.
Might as well be Edward Hopper. At least he
would try to see me in a positive light, he
might turn his head and try to determine if
there is a best side, and what color my skin
actually is: apricot? butter? morning sun?
Maybe he would shout encouragement, one
word, well-timed, would help with when,
exactly, to discard the shirt, or what I should do,
like if I should twirl the bra, or just drop
it, still cupping my absent breasts, on top
of my t-shirt, jeans, socks, empty shoes.
Forget it. He would paint only what he can see,
hair, eyes, skin tone. Not actually me.