striptease

hey, I don't need to strip myself in public,
not anymore;
no, I don't need to wear clothes to stuff my boobs,
my biceps or my backside,
not anymore;
no, I don't need to let them hang loose
behind large windows and doors
that keep the wind up,
not anymore;
no, I don't need highlights and curls
and made up moles
in the right places,
no not anymore;
hey, I'm not a stripper -
not anymore;
I don't need your eyes
to meet mine,
to ogle at me,
or look me up and down
like a can full of worms;
I have mine; my own;
and,
in the comfort of my own room,
in the attic or in the hallway,
or down in the dark basement,
where I shed skins without a mirror,
I strip down to my bones,
until the marrow oozes
from every pore,
where these eyes
burn into every nook and cranny,
reveling in the mystery
of what it takes to be me,
turned on by the sheer audacity
of being
this man, this woman,
for my eyes
alone.