solisis

for you, prudence:

My finger leaves a clean streak on the mirror as I run it down in a dejected exhale bearing the wounds of collected rejection and failed hellos of a self imposed bow. I cant even look myself in the eyes anymore as they cross me with a constant stabbing word and a lingering scent of every day that went by without leaving this room. I might have hit the bottom but I still hold on to a thin string suspending me over the blades. I cant quite give up when these phantoms send such beautiful songs. I wish I could believe them when they tell me how Im something I assure you Im not. I wish I could lift my head when they ask me to look at my undiluted, crystal edge nose. I know they are just flattering me but I will humor them and raise a single eye towards the only clean line on the mirror and move my position slightly to reveal the subject of their admiration.
Do you know what its like to watch a train wreck? There are so many things flying and colors unlike anything Ive thought to paint. A disaster but something you cant ignore. I watched the mirror in a phase without breathing as my brows crush together and my frown drops an octave. I cant fight the tears anymore. Theres futility in such an effort, and what does it matter anyway since nobody will come in to place my head on their shoulder. The ducts open further when I hear the emotionally destroyed voice that cracked as I lost control and released an exhale so saturated in pity it made the flowers wilt a block away. Even if I could dismiss the sound of my own misery I would only linger in the fear of it returning. Too much so that I couldnt even clear my mind long enough to hear the words of encouragement that nobody left on my pillow. The camera goes distant as the wide angle fills the screen with the entirety of this blood red room. I have my hand still placed quivering on the mirror and the other on my lap with my palm facing the curling paint left on the ceiling. A white floral nightgown and a single bedroom slipper. The other filled to capacity with ashes and still wet tears. If there was an orchestra to fade the scene it might have cued the requiem several years ago instead the silence breaks my night again to leave me in the nadir of my own self constructed hell. Forever to forget the possibility that there is some sort of validity behind the phantoms brush of pleasantries or the bouquet of hearts they taunt me with. If only there was something closer to open the gates of pandoras vault. My own vault. Built by my own assumptions and my own fears. If never comes, then I might accidently realize how much I am loved despite my own opinion of myself and how wrought into my bones are the words of the thrashers and inconsiderate of my past. Somewhere I know that the phantoms are right. But the tears keep me from hearing the words from even one more person, as I could handle no more abuse if I wish to hold this thread and avoid the mincing of the blades below. This one is fragile as a thousand year old book and even the slightest breath would reduce me to a cough in the wind. There to share my demise with a story inhaled by thousands over the faces of the papers and the hands of those unfortunate enough to carry the casket away. I swear it someday, but not tonight. Not tonight.
I know I am beautiful. But I am destroyed.

it is intended to be positive despite how glum it is
enjoy