He dabbed a sprig of liquid lavender on one wrist.
Then the other.
His mirror gawked at him,
struck blind by such brazen behavior.
The crystal bottle shook as his hands did,
which made replacing the cap difficult.
His father didn’t know.
His father didn’t know about the silk scarves stuffed into a small slit in the upstairs mattress. His father didn’t know about the trips to the theatre district, and the lace costumes she had tried on.
Was there no mercy? No understanding?
Of course not,
this was a man’s world.
There stands time, not as a grandfather, but as a threadbare coat. Thrown on the bed, or the vertebrae of a chair, waiting. Time waits for no man, but birthed patience in the stead of something greater. This coat, a needy thing, rejects all who wear it, particular to a fault. And whose fault is it? Is it he, worrying at the dregs of his morning coffee? Is it she, plucking mournfully at the whiskers of her cello? Or is it the unfinished manuscript, curled against the banister, forgotten? This coat, with ears upturned, eyes tarnished, and smeary skin, it neglects to mention who it waits for. The thing retains glorious roots and an empty tongue. This vain supposition lies misbegotten, its birth not of the womb but of the mind. Can you feel it now, tugging at your sleeves with its dull teeth? Chipping away at your eyesight, a malignant Michelangelo. Immortality is a broken sewing machine, pinned to the eyes of the beholder. I think you’ll understand when you’re older.
Safe on a tightrope,
falling from a microscope.
Drowning in a pool of stars,
purchasing our pretty scars.
Writing things on the wall,
using honey and a tiny scrawl.
Forever fighting our mirrors,
slaying those ugly little flaws.
This is how we get our claws.
Like Narcissus of old,
trapped in front of a reflection bold.
Only she dislikes what she sees.
Humans make shadows with their hands,
a reflecting mirror from the badlands.
Ghosts do not miss a thing,
a watchful wedding ring.
River crash and burn,
dust inside an urn.
Cowards hide in the eyes of others,
a feeling he smothers.
forever filled with gaunt sighs.
I feel too much.
I can’t tell the difference.
All I know is that they both hurt like hell.
I’m still dying,
just not dead.
but still alive somehow.
My organs are choking me, my skin is too layered.
I want to rip it off.
They talk to me.
I don’t listen, but I still hear.
Pure madness lives inside my bones,
inside my veins.
Nicotine for the soul,
nightmares for my brain.
Paint explodes inside my irises.
Screams echo from my fingers.
I’m an experiment,
[time of death; 6:33]
Hating yourself is an art.
It requires practice,
but no patience.
The only limit is our imagination,
how far it will go.
There is no friend,
Just what you have created,
a monster made of snow.
A paradox withstands,
one that cannot be solved by sleight of hand.
Existence is fleeting,
even with my heart still beating.
I cannot live,
what with this ache in my chest.