Mirror--a prose poem

Mirror. Why, mirror, are you in here? To tease me out of my clothes. You’re feasting on me, aren’t you? You’re reflecting eye on my dappled thighs and you can’t resist me. Do you? Shall I? Coy little square, my… what sharp corners you have—the better to reflect you my dear. And the lights are turned low to hide what I can and I frame myself sleek silver shines lined with the parts I do not care for. You minx, you wall dwelling vixen. You are, exclusively mine, until someone walks behind me.