Cursed: My Only Real Job
Blessed: the Background
I screwed up.
Badly.
And I won’t let me live it down.
Forty years. Fifty years. One thousand years later.
The switch was flipped. The axon grew. The deal with hate struck.
I broke so many rules and enough hearts,
I let down so many, simply too lazy to keep my word,
But this self hatred I honor endlessly.
The record exists nowhere.
But the fear of letting it vanish, to let true nature…
To allow oblivion its healing strike.
Why should I fear this?
These foibles.
These impish trespasses of a damaged child,
How have they become the sonorous
Background radiation of my existence?
My very being ripples recursively
Cursively
Cursed.
No witch but my sorcerer self.
I live in my wheel of knives,
Cruelty facing inwards,
Also somehow proud.
I don’t want to be myself but I can’t get over
My overwhelming self.
After all, I can see it in the mirror, I look good in a suit.
A funhouse room of mirrors, immaculately dressed,
Each one mocking,
“You did this.”
About the Creator
Stéphane Dreyfus
Melanchoholic.
It’s just me. Growing old and wrong. A time lapse bonsai soul, clipped and curtailed in all the worst ways.
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