There's the sort of fear
that
paralyses
your body,
and
the sort of fear
that eats at you
from the inside out,
until your smile wavers
and the truth starts to show.
There's the sort of worry
that
plays on your mind,
and the sort of worry
that
ruins your mind,
turns it rotten
and blinds your eyes,
so there's no colour left in your isis
and all you see is black.
There's the sort of hope
that seems
like a light at the end of the tunnel
and
the sort of hope
that is essential
and is the last bit of rope
for you to grip on to
before the darkness eats you whole.
There's a type of
pleading
that means
"Give me the last cookie",
and there's the sort of
pleading
that means
I'm begging.
Please,
please,
please.

I'm not me.
I struggle through life with my
siamese twin.
It's getting stronger than me.
Heavier.
It's lied alot in the past,
first white lies,
then little fibs,
then real lies
and now we're here
and I don't know who to believe.
I think this time it's telling the truth.
I think this time the boy's not crying wolf.
I think it's just me doing the crying.
Nobody seems to help,
nobody seems to understand
how big,
how tiring,
how cumbersome
my twin has become,
what I have to lug about
every day.
Nobody understands how much it's
distorted reality,
so I don't what's real
and what isn't.
But no.
This time I think it's being honest.
And isn't honestly the best policy?
Although,
they also say
ignorance is bliss.
I wish I had an on/off switch for my twin.
I wish I could turn off the power.
I can feel somebody hovering over mine.

I am dead
and buried
and dust
already.

I am rotten
and rancid
and revolting
as I type.

I am hooked to hospital drips
and unable to move my lips
and slowing from gulps to sips
and falling
quicker
and quicker
and quicker
until








I am dead
though I breathe,
my parents laugh,
not knowing they're bereaved,
and as the dirt fills my nostrils
and the soil clogs my throat
it turns damp
from my tears
and flowers
hopefully
grow.

My voice box has been cut out
and laid bare and ****** upon a table.
My tongue has been severed
and tucked away in a drawer,
a slab of hidden whispers.
In their shadows,
a new voice box has been installed,
a new tongue fitted in the empty hole.
They feel stronger.
Louder.
Different.
The voice box is loud enough to scream into the ocean
and have twisted,
unknown creatures at the bottom shudder at the sound,
the tongue is strong enough to slap and caress,
to climb a mountain and run a race,
with nothing but words to mark it's trail.
The old ones will sometimes try a feeble wail,
a shake of the drawer,
ghosts that I will welcome with open arms,
but the new ones are a gift.
And I will treasure them.

There was once a girl with a fear of mirrors.
A fear so frightening,
it followed her round wherever she went.
Zombie films were fine
and spiders didn't bother her,
she would have happily seen a ghost
and the dark was her best friend.
But the mirror haunted her.
"Look at yourself..."
it would whisper,
"Fat,
ugly,
baby face,
crooked teeth..."
Even in bed,
when night veiled it's reflection,
it spoke.
The duvet over her head wasn't much of a shield,
the voice taunting her,
ringing in her ears,
until she woke up,
a sticky, writhing mass in the middle of the matress.
"Good Morning."
The day time was no better.
Shop windows acted as put-me-up mirrors,
cutlery in cafes the same.
There was a solution to walking in the day time,
head down,
head down,
head down,
don't make eye contact,
head down,
but a rogue puddle could stop her in her tracks.
Her watercolour reflection swam menacingly on it's surface,
the voice rising dreamily from it like a mermaid speaking under water.
But she'd take a whole city of puddles
if she could avoid the carnival of horrors that was shopping for clothes.
There,
no matter where she stepped,
mirrors of all shapes and sizes would spring from corners,
the reflections getting redder
and uglier
and sweatier
and more pathetic
each time she span into a new one,
pretty,
thin,
popular girls preened themselves in the corner of her eyes,
friends with the mirrors.
She could hear the voice speaking to them,
but it's words were kind and friendly.
Looking down made no difference as mirrors adorned the floors,
up the same,
the ceiling a funfair nightmare of crazy mirrors,
the whole shop a kaleidoscope of her disgusting,
repulsive,
loathsome face.
She couldn't even cry.
The fear was so great,
that she couldn't risk seeing a reflection in one of the tears.
Even her sorrows mocked her.
The only way was to bottle it up,
to smile,
act like nothing was wrong,
look in her bag when her friends were looking in the mirror,
close her eyes at the hairdressers,
throw a sheet over her own, hateful mirror.
Throw a sheet over herself.
Nobody could hurt her if she didn't let them in.
One day,
the girl smashed the mirror in her room.
She grabbed a shoe and struck it with such force,
that the awful face before her splintered
and crashed to the floor in a thousand pieces.
When she looked down,
hundreds of dark eyes blinked back at her.
It's shell still remained hanging on the wall,
a black rectangle that looked like it could be a portal to another world.
She could still see herself in it.
She shut her eyes and squeezed them hard,
but the mirrors were behind her eyelids,
printed onto her brain,
painted onto her pupils.
The mirror was inside her.
The girl was now a looking glass of self-loathing.
The voice whispered inside her head.
"Just look at yourself.
Look at yourself,
look at yourself,
look at yourself,
LOOK."
She realised she would never be able to escape the mirrors.
She realised that she would smash herself into nothing but broken glass if she didn't just
look.
So she did.
As each day went by,
with every new mirror that crept up on her,
she looked inside it,
looked at herself.
The first time sweat beaded and dripped down her neck
and her hands shook.
She thought she would faint,
thought she was going to run,
thought she wouldn't do it,
but she did.
She looked.
She kept looking for a long time,
scrutinsing her every feature until she realised,
it wasn't that bad.
She looked,
until eventually,
as time passed by,
she managed to smile.
Until eventually,
whenever she closed her eyes,
the mirrors on her lids nodded "You'll be okay.".
Until eventually,
the fear wasn't so scary anymore.
Until,
eventually,
she let herself cry.
And she wanted to see herself in the tears.
There was a once a girl who liked mirrors.

I thought girls
were meant to be cute.
Able to giggle
and flutter their eyelids
and toss their hair around,
to catch boys in the tangled net.
There's a hole in mine
and my eyes won't seem to flutter.
Moths lay stagnant over them,
not a butterfly in sight.
I try to look seductively out of them,
give a coy smile,
but it doesn't work
and my laugh isn't right.
Not the light hearted bird song that lifts a guy's heart
to a girl's mercy,
but an awkward
sigh
stinking of irony.
I wish I could be like the others.
I wish I could sway my hips
and lick my lips
and feel
beautiful.
I wish I could preen in bathroom mirrors
instead of run straight by,
the ***** floor a better sight
than what the mirror would hold.
I wish I could be in the pictures
instead of taking them,
the friend referred to as pretty
instead of the one made to deliver the message,
the girl that talks instead of stays quiet,
already knowing the outcome.
I wish I could just
be
a
girl.
Whatever that means.
I wish the mirror wasn't the scariest nightmare I've ever had,
scarier than the men I can't please,
scarier than the fact that I can't please myself,
scarier than all of that.
There's a crack in my reflection.
How do I seal it up?