The Attractive Nuisance of Prosopagnosia

If only you could feel your appearance from my POV
other people call the shit sexy
windswept tyranny
causing accidental epiphanies
your existence to me is perplexing
a closet locked by a poisoned tipped key
killing time until you can free
ferocities on my simplest fragility
other people call the shit sexy
I call it a cataclysmic travesty
of mathematical sorcery
constantly challenging the concept of sovereignty
between my body and envy
and your lips and kissing
out here looking like heaven’s enemy
reflection detection a purposeful atrocity
other people call the shit sexy
I call it molecular manipulation of my limited ocularity
and addictive insincerity
If only you could see what you look like through me
you’d conquer hell easily

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