there is a taste of bitterness
with the absence of solidarity.
the distance between the mirror and reality
draws the border of an exempt paradox.

with the sip of dark syrup, a new image begins to undress,
an image with darkness, my lifeline’s entity.
however, with the blindness of opaque,
a shard of clarity injects my voice box,

wake and observe,
the coldness in my veins, the blood on my hands.
without doubt, without grace, become liable.
“I’ll be good.”