The woman in the reflection is not me.

She is a passenger,
a momentary fragment of the beauty and indulgence
in a carcass harboring a bloody ulcer.

Pulsating and humming,
it consumes the image of what once was,
cremating remains of opulence and dignity.

The deceiving image of a ripe being,
nectar drips off the corners of her bleeding mouth.
A wasp rests under her eyelid.

She is the punishment beyond redemption,
an unearthed fantasy,
the dreaded end to a Dionysian vacation.

But her hunger and adoration leave scars,
that accompany those who succumb to it
until the rot consumes their lies.

Have I really changed that much?

I beg her to let me back inside.