This is the biggest lie
The mirror told me;
Don't speak.
Why?
People can hurt you when they
know too much.
Will they?
Can they?
Yes, when?
Yesterday.
I don't remember that.
Because you think you know it
all, stupid boy.
I don't.
Good, because you don't, you're
wrong. That's right.
I think I need to speak to someone
But you have me; I know
everything
Mirror, mirror
On the – communal - wall
Where strangers **** and ****
And always avoid eye contact
There's power in silence
But then how will I find things out for
myself, if I am quiet always?
Know the power of knowledge,
ledge of knowing
What if I fall off this ledge?
You think too highly of yourself,
you're shallow it won't hurt.
Right.
Or is it wrong, I told you to be quiet and you still speak.
Nobody listens to silence
- Quiet **** -
Tie the noose for one's
- Own neck -
Maybe the small knife from
- The kitchen -
To carve on flesh, escape from
- My skin -
I want to keep it safe, not scarred
- Not always -
Fatal, just curious.
-Does that make sense?-
It's not real. Let me ask someone I think
-I trust-
Stop dreaming!
I can't control that.
You said this was your body,
you're control?
But that's different.
See, you're not always right!
It's not bad to be wrong,
sometimes.
Then why are you still speaking?
I'd like to lie down now.
Okay.
What sacrifice will I leave to the beast?
“Kind can be the inflicted, and also the ignorant.
Gracious can be the dark; or else too the light.
Afraid are the lost, and so too the able.
Bliss is real”.
But you aren't kind!
Neither are you.
Gracious? Look at your posture.
I'm looking.
Are you telling me I am old?
Sometimes.
Filth. You are ignorant.
I am going to light a candle now.
There is a church I walk past everyday. It is orange, not like the fruit, but like the sand when the sun is half way between this land and another. When the skin of water is cool, and not blue like the crayon drawings' of a child. Sometimes I want to knock on the heavy, mahogany door of the church. Not for permission to enter; I want to know how thick the door is. Orange with dark spots, that is how I remember the church. Points to the sky, and I would need to take a detour to see it close. I am always late, maybe one day I will be later. You said I could just wake up earlier; I told you I will not do that.
You must love yourself,
look how many mirrors are in
here, ha! Just kidding. This is cool.
Ha, I know. I love and hate mirrors.
Really?
They're tender and tough. Depends
who's looking. Does that make
sense? I want to
say more about them, but there's
not enough words.
I've never thought of a mirror
like that before.
And I've never thought that I can
stop thinking that way about
mirrors.
Do you want some more water?
There's no more in the fridge, but
let me get some from the bathroom
sink. It's better from there.
Don't worry, I'll go. You're tired.
Neither quick or slow, but delicately, he walks to the bathroom. I hear the door open, the light switch on, a pause. He walks, runs the sink; I can hear the glass filling. It is a small apartment, and the walls are weak. He turns the tap off, the flick of darkness and I can hear his footprints returning. He hands me the glass; I know it is cold before I touch the glass because of the condensation. His fingerprints are there, and so too are mine. He relaxes his shoulder against mine, presses his lip to my ear. His breathing is calm, like the water at the beach. Then that small chuckle, I hear him, exhale. Hard and protective, like the door of the church. Stable and seductive, I know he is going to tell me his witness, or a joke.
You don't have mirrors in your bathroom.
