Dismorphed

I, looking in the mirror yesterday, witnessed distorted eyes replacing mine; and, too, the lips and nose, as if a sign, seemed bent crooked, misaligned in some way. And, as I, squinting, gazed on that display, an unheeding hand groped at the outline of the coldly reflective glass confine. I watched it slowly mangle the red-clay body which, lifeless, answered my dead stare. Tearing tripe from stomach, and from breast the heart, those fingers worked maliciously, dismembering each inch of skin less fair.— I know not who it was who flayed my chest: I? or that demon called Society?