February 12, 2011
Who am I?
Who is this?
The image in the mirror
It opens its eyes and words spill out,
Dripping off its chin, pooling on the floor,
Dancing in the drain.

Pain. Furrows on my brow, ruts in my skin,
Weeds sprout, take root, burying with eager, insistent fingers through knots of flesh and shards of bone.

Sickness. It emanates from my very soul and contaminates everything I touch,
Withering decaying friendships, burning crumbling bridges,
As I stand on the shore, waving, a grin on my face, a glint in my eye.

Noise. A war in my ears, between them, all around them,
Screeches, caws, grunts, a cacophony of jumbled, mixed up vowels and consonants.

The face is still staring back at me with silent features,
Cold, smooth glass touches my fingertips when I try to stroke it,
Trying to soothe the face with such sad eyes,
A soul burning inside smooth, white flesh.
Smash. The glass fractures and falls to the floor
The face is broken,
Yet time still ticks on.

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