The Devil's Promises

March 17, 2017
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I leaned over the tub,

knees forced deeply into the ground,

my arm's stretched across the rim allowing my hands to meet in prayer

as I watched the now frigid water slowly empty,

portraying every last bit of my sanity- gone.


My eyes swell with tears

so tainted with fury, they burn every nerve in my eyes as they build,

rendering them shot and red- a shade similar to the hue in my cheeks

as the salty drops race down my face, leaving behind a trail of pain.


I think back on the struggles in my past:

the endless heartache and dissappointment,

the gut wrenching betrayal and denial,

the empty promises from vacant souls whom I conditionally deem

worthy of my loyalty and trust.


My body begins to tremble,

the long, wet hair dripping down my damp back

turning my once white shirt now transparent,

revealing multiple stab wounds inflicted by two-faced demons.


I seem to disregard all of reality as I can hear the gentle drops

of water glide down my spine and hit the floor,

acting as the tick of a bomb, counting down the seconds

before I lose restraint of myself and turn

to maliciously shatter the glass mirror I had believed to be mocking me.


My back facing the broken mirror,

blood dripping from my scratched up hands,

and yet I still couldn't help but feel the reflections

of all who have falsely manipulated me under a comforting bed of lies

made by the clever demon himself, purely disguised as my loved ones.


I heard my mother promising she loves my father, as she signed the divorce papers.

I heard my father promise me I won't get diabetes, as I lie on a hospital bed, blood sugar rising.

I heard my tio tell me he would see me again, as he lie on his intoxicated death bed.

I heard my first love tell me he'll never hurt me, as another now tries to save my heart from drowning in a sea of scars.

I heard my brother tell me, "I'm fine, don't worry about it" before he dropped into my arms with uncontrollable cries.


As the memories flood back

my heart fills with a type of novacane called strength.

I carefully rise to my feet,

aware of the sharded glass that surrounds me,

picking up the last glistening piece in the pile of dingy crystal

I stare back and look at my torn down reflection-

Loose, now dry, knotted up hair hiding the tired in my eyes

and the desperation in my weak stance,

As I whisper,

"Don't cry over the devil's promises"

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