**** what would I know Of a never ending battle I’m shackled up at home Only warn torn Warhol’s Is the money I struggle for I see for nothing harmful Headaches pound migraines The war my mind gains While you say something brilliant Eyes make it real for the deceiving Braille At eye rate the peddles fall from the wings As he casts into the ocean which he fears The light mirrors peace at the surface Either he’s floating or breathing The world sees it all as the same thing
after years of pondering in musty libraries and public bathrooms and on my bedroom floor i think i finally understand why the face staring back at me in the mirror is so unfamiliar
i am not my dark eyes, i am not my crooked nose, i am not my thin lips, i am not my rosy cheeks
no, i am the hairstyle that my mother taught me how to do before middle school started so that i could take care of myself i am the love poems that run through my head all day because language is so wonderful and you are so wonderful and sometimes i can't help but experience certain compositions as many times as possible i am the friendship bracelet that i wear on my wrist that matches with my best friend who would never wear a bracelet in a million years but did it for me i am the whirlpool of love that exists behind my eyes that shy glances and awkward eye contact put there
i see myself in my fingers mindlessly tapping out rhythms from my favorite songs, not in my tears, but i see myself in everything i mourn for
i see myself in the money i saved from my grandmother's funeral three years ago because i am too attached to part from it, not in my smile, but i see myself in my inability to keep a straight face when someone laughs at my jokes
the years of pondering in musty libraries and public bathrooms and on my bedroom floor was worth it because i see myself in those too, more doodles in the margins of the storybook of my life
in the end, i became who i am because of you
humans are but mosaics of the people around them ;;; we are such little seeds if not watered by loved ones
When my mind gets lost in the far corner of the dark side of the moon, the need grows for razors to expose my blood, destroying progress’ fragile balloon, I glaze myself in the mirror and, as if the mirror magically change The beast I thought to see, to a fair queen. Who wonders why we grew estranged.
It’s does quick glances at the mirror that allow you to see the truth
That brief moment Walking into the shaded apartment to find you reading in flannel And everything in me jumps The camera obscura of my iris snaps, Suspending you in amber light. The tapered elegance of your fingers across a page A glint of Versailles blue-gold eyes And fortified ramparts of your shoulders. I will carry this vestige with me In a petticoat pocket Until we are old And your arms do not lift me as you just did The last strand of your hair is silver And your cheeks sink with age like your father’s. These small gems of youth Of promise To keep in a sleeve until they are needed And the mirrors show reflections we cannot change
That unforgiving metal. Within that unforgiving metal lies all the things you cannot forgive about yourself. Those freckles on your chin that you wish would expand into a constellation so that you may give them names and so that you may give them meaning, within that unforgiving metal.
The Greeks threw their hands towards the heavens and deemed cosmic accidents worthy of the names of gods, although within them lie no gifts. Like a bedazzled and jaded Tiresias impostor one stumbles upon on their way home, who sees nothing but the tangible and tells all but the truth. Still, he is clad in diamonds and gold and thus has value in trade. Beauty triumphs over mendacity and mendacity over reality.
But the freckles that mar your skin, that you cannot transfigure into the most meaningless of stars or the crudest of answers, sit there defiantly, waiting to be acknowledged and waiting to be named.
You lean your forehead forward to rest against the cool smoothness of its idle twin. You could swear you saw her sneer at you. The freckles do not budge—they will consume you whole.
I stood in front of the mirror again, see a sad face, looking for where to be happy. I'm looking for myself, maybe lost among the piles of books, I want to find it among the quotes on my favorite novel, which I borrowed from you. I looked for it again yesterday. But I lost you today. Turns out we still need to write a story, but not to write love, any of them.