about
I am a mirror without a face. Fragments of myself are threaded through these words. If you know me, you'll learn that you don't. To strangers, we may be closer than you think. In my reflections, you might see yourself staring back.
I am a mirror without a face. Fragments of myself are threaded through these words. If you know me, you'll learn that you don't. To strangers, we may be closer than you think. In my reflections, you might see yourself staring back.
Watching from beyond, her eyes never blink. Wide and empty; no hope, no pain, just a pale reflection of both. I wonder if she pities me, or waits for me to break She looks a lot like me. Same dark eyes, same bitten lips. Her mouth stays pursed, As if she’s never laughed, never cried, never been known at all. She has nothing. And nothing looks so quiet, so clean. But it's a terrible kind of silence. Her hand lifts against the glass, fingers hovering near mine. No words. No expression. Just that hollow, endless look; like shes begging but doesn’t know what for. There’s blood under her nails. Or maybe mine. Hard to tell through the smear of fingerprints, which one of us has been scratching desperate enough to leave marks. Hoping to be freed. Her fingers keep twitching A restless little tremor, like she can’t stop trying even though she doesn’t know why. And I keep watching, stuck behind the glass. My palm pressed flat against the scratches. Wondering if I’m the one in the mirror… Or if she is.
I am rotting Quietly, invisibly My life a slow unraveling Of give and give and give With trembling hands I keep it all from breaking The dishes, the deadlines, Myself Everything slips through my fingers And still, I cling And it is just me Always, Just me The scaffolding, the spine, The soft flesh turned steel A slow bleed of self Again and again For the hope of rest, For the chance To build a life Worth living One day.
I developed a taste for death after he whispered me a lullaby. Beg for him nightly, face pressed to the floor. The door stays unlocked. I wait. I ache. I want him to kiss my wrists and tell me i’ve been good. I keep his number folded in paper i’ve memorised by heart, tucked between lip gloss and pills i might take. Every day i dress up pretty for the coroner just in case today’s the one i get to be beautiful forever. I don’t fear him. Only flirt. Can’t help but smile and blush when i picture how he’ll take me. Leave the window open and hope he pulls me through. I imagine the fall. A sick fantasy that plays in my head like a broken clock.
Books I've read and loved.