To be seen

Faces in the curtain folds and posters on the wall
And a full-length mirror bolted to the chimney breast:
A mute audience reflecting my awkward adolescence,
Charming, judging faces, eyes all dark and cruel.
I undress slowly, as if I am watched by them all.
Sometimes I feel playful, teasing, testing
Other times I am shy, unwilling, hiding
Under layers of covers, in bed alone and small.

But why do I not tear those pictures down
The haunting posters of beautiful people?
Is it really better to be tormented than alone?
Do I need to be watched to feel substantial?
Like an actor on a stage, to be seen is to exist
I cannot disappear if I subject myself to this.