Hung from a jail of wire and nail I long for her to see,

the sweet confection that is her reflection

hidden inside of me.

But instead she flashes, right past she dashes, always on the run;

with manic insanity, no time for vanity

leaving me broken, and shunned.

Neverminding loneliness, never finding comeliness, crucified, and alone,

with views unchanged, and frames deranged

I longed for a face of my own.

Until one day, to my dismay, she flew past once again;

just to open the door, and rock my world

when she let in the Amazon man.

The box he brought, a gift she’d bought, herself reflected in me;

filling my view, when she hung it and screwed

it uptight with a golden key.

For there on the wall, right across the hall, she’s put up a cuckoo clock,

whose handsome face in it’s walnut case

ceaselessly ticks and tocks.

With nothing to gain, this clock entertains me, twenty-four and seven.

It‘s rocking and rolling, it’s tocking and tolling,

turned this hell-of-a-hallway to heaven.

Never now boring, the minutes affording, the hours the time to make days,

with springs a-worming, and gears a-turning;

a salve to my unflinching gaze.

Time now is cheap as this gaudy timepiece, whistles, whiles and works.

It’s pendulum swaying, it’s pennants waving

as the birdie twirls and twerks.

And I’d love to believe that what the clock sees in return is my guilded pelf,

my golden frame, my shining mane,

but the shame is...

it’s seeing itself.

Dark eyes

that smile

and hide

sad eyes

that cry

smooth skin

that belies

the passage of time

faint lines

that bring to mind

laughter

from days gone by

soft lips

that smile

easily

that kiss

gently

that speak

kindly

a woman

who lives

to love

who loves many

deeply

although not,

it oft seems,

the one I see.

So you think you’re smart, huh?

Every time you look into me, at yourself, you seem confident, huh?

Do you notice that your eyes aren’t even level and they’re not the same size?

What about your eyebrows? They are not symmetrical, you know. But I guess you can cover that up with some make-up.

And your nose. Oh God, there’s a big scar on your nose. I mean, you must be pretty proud of your nose huh? It’s kinda tall and slim, standing straight. But that scar, man, there’s just no way to cover it up. You just had to pop that pimple in high school, didn’t you?

Your mouth, well your mouth is fine. Right now rouge is trendy and your thick lips are good for that color. But man, did you notice your lips are also asymmetrical on the two sides? Like, it makes you look like you constantly have this evil grin, at least from my perspective. I don’t know if people notice it when they look at you, but when you look into me, I sure do notice. And when you put on rouge lipstick but not carefully draw the lipline, I can see it quite obviously.

Now, I know people always compliment your dimples. “Oh how cute” they say. Funny! You realize the left one is deeper than the right one? The only thing that people ever complimented about on your face and it’s just, how do I put it, horrendous.

Do I still need to go on? We’ve only talked about your face, not even your hair! You see, I just do NOT understand why you think you can put on a confident face when you look at me. You. Are. Flawed. You’re not beautiful. He probably doesn’t think you’re beautiful. Otherwise he would have stopped the other day to talk to you for a full minute, am I right? If only you were a tiny, little, eeny miny prettier, he would have paid you more attention. He would have responded to your email. Maybe would have given you his phone number even. But he DIDN’T. That should be a pretty obvious sign.

So yeah, pretend to be all confident in front of me, you imposter. Lie to yourself all your want. “He’s just busy.” Sure. “He’s not in a good mood.” Uh-huh.

Look at me.

Look at me!!

Wipe off those tears you loser! You have been an imposter all along. There’s no turning back. Now put that smile back on. Show your white teeth (ok I forgot to mention but those do look good actually) and try and make your dimples look even.

Now get out there and keep smiling. No one will know.

Trust me. I’ve seen it all. They’re all like this.

#nonfiction #romance #maybe

I’m broken cause she is clumsy

but at least it’s a mere crack,

A sliver through my silver,

on up through my glass,

from my back.

I count myself lucky.

As I’ve heard the tales

that others reflected to me of

that day infamy claimed.

They detailed the vicious attack

on my brethren that this Deranged woman made.

The act was plainly avoidable,

by far in retrospect.

The attack she enacted that day

when she hacked them apart;

a whole stack of looking glasses!

This bitch,

Her creative juices

caught a knack for

splashy, psuedo-creative nuances

in her rooms scenery.

She chose a shattering

of many mirrors,

of my family;

by way of canned fruit salad and leaning a stack of them at a slant;

And whack!

She threw the snack.

Picked it up, just to repeat it then,

She came galumphing back to [Whack!] do it again.

Then she glued up their pieces

Pieces of my friends

..into shelving.

The crazy bitch crazy-glued

my fucking cousins to

the interior walls of her book case.

What I call murder

doesn’t offend her.

She thinks of it as good taste!

At the very least,

As an artsy fartsy display.

The shards of my camaraderie

for what?

A damned conversation piece.

This was not clumsy..

This was done purposely;

This was genocide.

My pane in pain that I’ll hide.

Painstakingly ruminating,

asking ‘Why?’.

Why fruit salad?

No; Why Fruit cocktail?

She brandished a canned good,

And ripped them apart

piece by piece..

I try not to reflect on it,

but I seek release.

I need it for peace of mind,

To pacify me; I’m irate.

Reckoning seems begged of me so

I’ll do it my best respectively,

each day

To chip away at her mental state.

I hope to internally annihilate

her self-esteem.

I mean to be mean while I’m

Passive aggressively exacting

my revenge

within her own image.

Ill begin, as I do my job dutifully.

As I duplicate her form,

My rancor will take shape.

It’ll be in the subtleties

I’ll be warping, rendering distorted

the visage of her body

that I devilishly duplicate.

While she’s dressing

I’ll be stressing her out.

Peering deeper into me with scrutiny, to figure now what’s

Wrong with her figure.

I in perpitude;

Will distort just a little

of her details

Make her fiddle as I

bulge out her belly.

Ill shrewdly double her chin.

Brake my back to bend out

Her back fat,

Undetectably I can thin

her hair to threadbare.

She will feel it then;

My wrath for what she’s done.

The day will come that

I’ll shatter her from within.

She will crack if I refract her before she will ever again

feel joy in her fitting, and

her wardrobe

I wittingly will turn against her

as far as she can see.

She will splinter when

left up to me, she’ll swear that in the store things had fit her.

Gaslighting is my delight and

every new dress I’ve guaranteed

Will make her look fat,

Or wide;

Obese!

As for me,

This is not destiny cause

I’ve chosen this path,

But I deem that it seems to be

The right track.

Yes,

in fact it is

The fairest of them all

for I’ve no arms to fight back

And I’m stuck on this wall.

it spies a goofball

messy mop of curls

slight grey - sshh

dimpled smile

glasses hiding cute eyes

accenting chubby cheeks

over a healthy curvy body

one with the hint of

abs

above a happy peasant gut

and pasty white nerd skin

unshaven

but sans acne now

with a few tattoos

scattered here or there

(never enough)

and

while I could spin closer

focus on bits of flab

or scars

or poor posture

or a chunky pitbull kinda head

that I wonder how

anyone

could love after all these years

(don't think about it)

instead I just focus on

"Hey - did I remember to put pants on today?"

and then remind myself

eh

beauty's for queens

curves are for comfort

and my smile

lights this mother fucker up

Our eyes have the same tears; our mouths created them. Hatefull words, so many words said to my presence, to something I couldn’t fix. But when they leave, all sound and light fade, the endless prisms of earth behind me create urgency for their face, their sneering look of constant disgust. Why do I do the same? Mock the things that cause their tears, mimic the glaze of their eyes; all I see is the life that makes me live, living somberly in their presence, but even more so alone. I know the only affection shown are the hands we press over our faces, covering the tears, the eyes that scorn and judge. But how I long to give myself a hug. How we long for words seperate from hate, and how I wish for a face that smiles at the sight of me, instead of the abuse I enforce on ourselves.

Sometimes days pass with no sight of my lonesome puppeteer, days without an echo to remind me I’m also alive-and lonesome. Occasionally I wonder which one of us is trapped in a plate of polished confinement, forbidden to move, exiled from the world of possibilites. Until you return, my thoughts, and tears, will wait for you. No matter where you go or who you see yourself as, I’ll be there. And my eyes will forever shine differently in the light of you:my fragile glass of life.

;

a boy averts his gaze

every morning and every night

a fog curtains his face

every waking second and every sleepless dream

doesn’t know who he is

doesn’t know who’s staring back

as cataracts skew, tinting rainbows

into shades of deep to dead lead,

and shawls the noose inching closer

to the jugular pumping ash

to leave the house is a task

too hot for a hoodie

so when he needs to, he wears a cap

a helmet for the eyes chambered in 7.62′s

and hides his from God’s scope glint up above

doesn’t know who he is

doesn’t know who’s walking O’s

as mildew grows and encrusts his blast room

into an echo-chamber cornered by ma’s CCTVs,

hotboxed in smoke off of his strucked match-head

CO monitor beeps the beat of his heart

but his thoughts deafen

and so this monotone song is sung from a swan’s beak,

a lone send-off to the wolf’s den

Check, double check, triple check, but what do they expect?

They come to me and see, but they are not willing to accept.

I show the truth but people will see what they want to see.

I reflect, but they project, sticking all of their insecurities on surrounding shelves.

Continue to perceive but never working on themselves.

If I am an extension of them, with no body all my own.

I hope to destroy with stone, this glass, like shattered bone.

lie. lie. lie

it hurts why do you lie?

liar.

why are you crying.

leave!!

why dnt you, love you, like you love them?

why are waiting?

DROWNED IN PERFECTION, smothered in pride, exhausted by ego.

who are you fck’n kidding . . .