She never shows her face. I can’t help what happens next – I get jealous. I mean I wonder why, of course, why she never makes an actual appearance. Is she afraid to be seen or is it about freedom. From judgement by this cruel world. Is it that if we could go out there faceless, bodyless, we could bear to spill our secrets in a way which also allows us to leave them behind. The sweet benevolence of detachment. You can say anything and nobody can pin it to your flesh. It isn’t nailed to your bone.. If my body is withheld from your view, from your touch, from your gaze, you perhaps imagine it more beautiful than it could ever be. And in the anonymity, I have you clutched in my false hands. I can say a word and wrap my mouth around all the fears you swallow about your own inadequacies. Your own prayers and needs become mine as you desire not to see my eyes but in them the reflection of your own. Making me pretty makes you pretty. Making me the devil makes you hell. I have been wanted, desired, fantasized about. Jerked off to. Didn’t think I’d say that did you. Didn’t think a lot about me as you sit calculating. Flush with empty power. Twisted inside a fantasy web or your own prismatic design. You will never see her face, I bet. I bet she keeps it hidden for all eternity and thus will remain flawless, unchanged, untainted, no matter how much time passes by. No matter the weather. I wonder if she is hiding or if it is part of a truer kind of revelation. I admire her commitment. But first. First I’m jealous.