The sky is almighty,
and your bedroom is not the color of burning, and your skin feels like skin again
but the sheets still smells like disappointment.
It's only then when mirrors start calling you names but yours.
The face on the other side of the mirror looks right at you,
the way your father does,
The face on the other side of the mirror looks nothing like you,
and you wanna break and smash every piece till your knuckles go numb and your reflection is covered with sour blood.
No, this is not a poem.
Coughing sorrys and mourns on
all the things you could've saved
is never poetic.
It is coating sadness in a paradox
It's a table for one, at holidays
Or maybe it's just the pills you chewed on to sedate your self-accept to sleep last night, or the night before,
or was it the night you divorced your self-approval made all the versions of you that would've still been prouder an extreme you.
So you bandage your knee and do not look at the sky for invitation.
The sky is not happy about it either,
but sky let you be,
because you're not your own story's Cinderella,
not the protagonist,
not the shoe,
not the ballroom,
not even the wedding bells when the curtains closes.
your only must is to make sure it never clicks to 12 O'clock.
Your only job is to enjoy the view from the backseat and stay at serve every time they think you should.
just like what the guy on the other side of the mirror says:
"drink your tea and never stop saying thank you no matter how many times it burns your tongue."
and it burns.
and you vowel thank you, and sorry, and pardon me, and it's my bad, and I'll do better I promise."
You shove it aside and shame it off.
You sink it in and drain your mouth.
You shrug it astray, until your shoulders start to cramp and gets heavier with every namesake hour and you just want to go home.
And it's alright until it hits you:
all this content was your own household in satires and poor metaphors.
You almost wanna crash every windowsill and picture frame or **** yourself trying,
Before you toss back up your apron and practice the mirror man words.
only this time you mouth them to the sky in reverse.
And only this time sky does not let it go.
Only this time the sky publishes her response.
Only then you're no longer the seeker underneath.
You're stuck inside a mirror,
you are the mirror-man now,
watching the world from a glassware and telling people to drink their tea and say thankyou no matter how it burns their tongues.
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 12:22 AM UTC
The sky is almighty,
and your bedroom is not the color of burning, and your skin feels like skin again
but the sheets still smells like disappointment.
It's only then when mirrors start calling you names but yours.
The face on the other side of the mirror looks right at you,
the way your father does,
The face on the other side of the mirror looks nothing like you,
and you wanna break and smash every piece till your knuckles go numb and your reflection is covered with sour blood.
No, this is not a poem.
Coughing sorrys and mourns on
all the things you could've saved
is never poetic.
It is coating sadness in a paradox
It's a table for one, at holidays
Or maybe it's just the pills you chewed on to sedate your self-accept to sleep last night, or the night before,
or was it the night you divorced your self-approval made all the versions of you that would've still been prouder an extreme you.
So you bandage your knee and do not look at the sky for invitation.
The sky is not happy about it either,
but sky let you be,
because you're not your own story's Cinderella,
not the protagonist,
not the shoe,
not the ballroom,
not even the wedding bells when the curtains closes.
your only must is to make sure it never clicks to 12 O'clock.
Your only job is to enjoy the view from the backseat and stay at serve every time they think you should.
just like what the guy on the other side of the mirror says:
"drink your tea and never stop saying thank you no matter how many times it burns your tongue."
and it burns.
and you vowel thank you, and sorry, and pardon me, and it's my bad, and I'll do better I promise."
You shove it aside and shame it off.
You sink it in and drain your mouth.
You shrug it astray, until your shoulders start to cramp and gets heavier with every namesake hour and you just want to go home.
And it's alright until it hits you:
all this content was your own household in satires and poor metaphors.
You almost wanna crash every windowsill and picture frame or **** yourself trying,
Before you toss back up your apron and practice the mirror man words.
only this time you mouth them to the sky in reverse.
And only this time sky does not let it go.
Only this time the sky publishes her response.
Only then you're no longer the seeker underneath.
You're stuck inside a mirror,
you are the mirror-man now,
watching the world from a glassware and telling people to drink their tea and say thankyou no matter how it burns their tongues.
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