Want to Know Something?

You want to know something? It’s not that difficult to notice you've fucked up.

Let me clarify. When you know you fucked up and act as if you didn’t, it won’t fool anybody. You can fool yourself into thinking you didn’t fuck up, but you still fucked up. When you act as if nothing happened it lays on your eyes as it reflects the objects facing it. You can’t hide what a soul has desperately grieved over for so long. You can’t live a separate life from the ones carrying your eyes and holding your grief as they fight your battle. You drown yourself the more you attempt to breathe underwater. You sink and can’t swim without a gasp of air you so desperately wish you could picture without suffocating. You have the desire to reach your hand out not knowing whether a hand will grasp onto your sorrows or if you can even hold a hand long enough to reach the shore and realize it’s gone. You. You’re gone.

You decided to suffocate yourself as you fell deeper and left it behind to lay there submerged in water and left behind a murder. A murder you longed for but when the reality came to the foot of your door, you were stripped of a personality, a persona, a mask. The mask you’ve been wearing since you became someone. Someone who was created as a way to deal with the person staring from the mirror. The person I wish to bash in the face until its eye pops out of its socket to then yank it out and watch as the blood caresses my skin, begging for more.

Too bad if I chose to swing I’d be breaking the mirror, as well as, the image I seem to portray as myself. Or it could be just another man who stares into the abyss my eyes have dug in attempts to find a sincere figure. To then continue to stand as I reach for an object. Apparently, it feeds off of me but, I can’t quite figure out what exactly triggers the meal to be cooked. He fires a smirk thinking that I fear the hollow plan of a misfit. I tend to believe I have a good grab on these ones but, some begin to slip out in an attempt to overthrow. It could’ve had a chance if I was still the same person as the one who drowned. Rather than someone who watches them as an attempt to feel. Or someone who allows them to linger in his mind and believe they have power, as I have company. To then have more visitors in an attempt to feel greater and bigger than a living being who decides to mourn over attachments.

As my death became a font in my life, I had to construct a being who could be the person staring back from the mirror. I so badly want to jam my knuckles in for a fatal effect. I could be the person who possesses company but, no actual attachment to it. I could be the person seeking help but, the company has begun to sew my lips. I could be someone I envision as a soulless object. Or I could be a piece of shit seeking sympathy from a piece of writing. In reality, I could fear the man in the mirror because it reveals the person I truly am rather than the person I wish to be. It reveals the helplessness that sits there as a display for others to assume if this image has meaning. Except, this image will give someone great disappointment when noticing the flaws.

Sometimes I think of being someone with color. All I get is black, white, and yellow. I’m either too hollow for the fix, too empty for the feel, or too hyper from the seal. The thought of falling to ground with my eyes slouching upwards with a sensational look of “I know I’ll find some relief in what a great escape”, is one to hope for. Maybe that could be the answer to a whiff of comfort, a time for no one.

Now, I wish to speak to the mirror in disbelief from this man wishing to die. I must sill piece this new one together and come to a conclusion of whether this is me thinking or someone else. But knowing that “me” carries no strings, how can I fully analyze the root of him?