Working Project

The Unopening Of Alessa


If you live your life in the eyes of the beholder,

Who are you when you are alone?

Must you become your own beholder,

Or does the facade begin to crack.

And what do you have to offer

When the product you sell is not self-image,

If it reflects each of your twisted imperfections.

The mind that sits under the skin you wear.


How will it be taken when your skin isn’t transparent?

When it’s not a soft peel of reflection,

But a cleaver hacking at its mirage.

Which is the delusion?


Even as you drink water and apply lotion,

Hoping the suppleness of your skin 

And soft kisses adorned to it 

Make it slip off like linen.


You remain entombed in this skin 

Or is it the mind that creates this entrapment.

What lotion can be used to soften the mind,

Must I first crack open my skull to release my skin?


Can you write me instructions on how you freed yourself,

Did the first incision cut through your insecurities? 

Did you cut until you understood love?

Or is it love that draws the dotted line for you to follow?


She stares at her own reflection

Falling desperately in love with her own image

She promises the world to her

Whilst thinking of everyone she loved before

Their love becomes meaningless to her

The reflection looks softly in contemplation 

They are connected, married to one body

Her hand caresses the vines that bind them

The sensation spreads like a fire through her body

It burns away every feeling of loneliness 

Beneath the flames there is only her left

She pours water over her now sensitive skin

The wetness smooths the path of her hands

She Moves over mountains pinching at their peaks


Grazing past her stomach 

She pauses and inspects it’s flatness

Before continuing along her body

Brushing along her rouged swollen lips

She becomes addicted with her touch

The other hand strokes down her neck

Electricity strikes in a bolt through her fingers

The sparks strike through the reflection

The glass shatters 


What is seen is the expectation

A big push for the ideal

A slogan for summer

Which acts more as an excuse

I’ll stop at that point

Or this goal

A post set further back


The intention falls darker

As the grooves grow deeper

(In fruition of deep grooves)

A satisfaction in my fingertips 

The soft blanket turns to stone

The safety removed from the gun

A roulette of habits


Becoming ones puppet master

Chained to the rulebook

Consumed by the illusion of power

You execute your punishment

Needs become wants

And wants are only for the free

One teaspoons of sugar 

Five jugs of water 

Two soft pink ribbons 

One sheet of chiffon into a dress

One pair of satin ballet pumps 

Three lessons in Passiveness 

One 15-steps beauty regime 

Seven weeks savings on make up 

One “How to Eat Nothing and Burn Everything” book

A man to get on your knee for 

Seven self-diagnoses

Five steps to plastic perfection 

Two botched nose jobs 

One addiction to pain medication 

Three miscarriages 

One destructive divorce 

One limited alimony 

Fourteen two-faced friends 

Twelve sleeping pills 

Zero happily ever afters


An abyss of never ending numbers

Each one empties me further 

A false prophecy of power

Control to the point of insanity 

Insanity that loses itself

Lost inside a twisted image 

Shrinking to non existence 

Stretched skin loosens 

It’s texture become foreign 

Bones peak 

Tender to touch 

But holding me down like rocks

Hardening the illusion