Cold, frigid, glowing,
the mirror reflects what you
cannot see.
I smell the morning I lost all control.
I looked longingly,
feeling my body
tremble
with disdain of what I had done
the night before.
I taste the bitterness
licking my lips,
reflecting,
knowing,
it wasn’t a dream.
I decide to take a shower
wash it all away.
Warmth enveloping my lost soul.
I climb in,
climb out,
try to recount
the damage done.
Steam drips off the mirror,
mildew lurking in the corners
of an old unwanted house.
Who takes care of that
which is vile?
I try to smile,
but the mirror
reflects too deeply.
About the Creator
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Disarmament
They say there's no atheism in the foxhole. While I wasn't currently neck-deep in a river of soft sediment, I was still praying to whoever would listen. Why am I doing this again? I would ponder while staring at the device that in no less than a minute could be my undoing. I scanned each and every variable panel and commonplace button as I watched the bright red L.E.D ticker countdown. No wires to cut, no code to put in, there was only one way to stop this infernal machine, and that incurred perfect timing.
By James U. Rizzi2 days ago in Fiction
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