Pictures of my present— but none of them smile back.
Just me, talking to the man in the mirror,
_his eyes tired,
his silence loud._
He stands in the frame, wrapped in skins made of fear—
To stand tall beneath the titles they gave him;
_layered, worn,
worn down._
To call it strength when you pretend to be more than you are.
But no one asks what it costs to keep holding up the
_image they’ve
painted of you._
I want to stop performing, but giving up feels like giving in
to everything they already believe about me, there's never an
_account for the fallen man—
only fingers pointed,
as they count him out like a statistic._
I think about a demise so often it no longer shocks me.
It just waits—patiently— like something I’ve already
_shaken hands with,
gripped by time pressing on me._
Sometimes I feel like I’m boiling alive, my chest
cracking open with a salty crunch, like a crab
_in a sealed ***
no escape, just steam and pressure._
A slow, bitter truth: no one’s turning the heat down.
And all I can say is—
“Crap.”
_Not funny. Not light._
Just the word that stumbles out when your soul folds
in on itself and even pain doesn’t know
how to explain itself anymore.
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 6:37 PM UTC
Pictures of my present— but none of them smile back.
Just me, talking to the man in the mirror,
_his eyes tired,
his silence loud._
He stands in the frame, wrapped in skins made of fear—
To stand tall beneath the titles they gave him;
_layered, worn,
worn down._
To call it strength when you pretend to be more than you are.
But no one asks what it costs to keep holding up the
_image they’ve
painted of you._
I want to stop performing, but giving up feels like giving in
to everything they already believe about me, there's never an
_account for the fallen man—
only fingers pointed,
as they count him out like a statistic._
I think about a demise so often it no longer shocks me.
It just waits—patiently— like something I’ve already
_shaken hands with,
gripped by time pressing on me._
Sometimes I feel like I’m boiling alive, my chest
cracking open with a salty crunch, like a crab
_in a sealed ***
no escape, just steam and pressure._
A slow, bitter truth: no one’s turning the heat down.
And all I can say is—
“Crap.”
_Not funny. Not light._
Just the word that stumbles out when your soul folds
in on itself and even pain doesn’t know
how to explain itself anymore.
Request permission to use this poem