We wear face masks
while she is working
and I see myself
transform, changing colour

into a super being
blue as a goddess
the decay of my body
well camouflaged
seemingly charmed away

What do I show
in this skin?
Myself, almost
touchable?
To strange eyes
I could not be more intimate

I look in the mirror:
my ribs shape my frame,
like lines that never go away.
They cage my heart,
turn it small.

A week sick.
*****.
Smell of decaying flesh.
No food for a week.
Only the necessary water to live.
I couldn’t breathe.

Now it has sculpted my frame,
made it fragile and small.
I put a shirt on;
hide it, push it away.

5 years of closing, like a shop in permanent clearance. Slashing prices on pieces of yourself, giving away the best parts for a fraction of their worth.

Frustrated and resentful for not being accepted at full price.

You’re too much, too cold, too sensitive, too uncaring, too… ‘not ‘the type’’.
Not into small talk.
Nothing in common.
But at least you don’t disgust them… right?

5 years of closing - the shutters grinding down heavier every day.

Once full. Open. Lit from the inside.
Now the shelves are bare,
the signage faded,
the windows covered in the dust you’re desperately trying to wipe away.

Feelings? Dismissed.
Truth? Twisted.
Vulnerability? Weaponised.

5 years of closing - not all at once, but inch by inch.
One lightbulb burning out, then another.
One shelf cleared, then another.

You used to know what you stocked.
There was clarity in who you were.
There’s inventory somewhere, maybe -
but no list, no labels.
Just shelves full of things you can’t name,
and no one left to tell you what’s worth buying.

Intentions? Questioned.
Needs? Inconvenient.
Silence? Safer.

5 years of closing - they say you meant to do it.
Meant to shut those shutters hard.
Meant to leave the shelves empty.
Meant to make them feel unwelcome.

As if the boarded windows were part of the plan.
As if the silence behind the counter was customer service.
As if becoming another abandoned shop front was a choice -
not the result of too many days with nothing left in stock.

Unseen in plain sight.
Unheard in full volume.
Unheld, even when breaking.

But hey - at least you don’t disgust them… not quite…
right?

I take a deep breath, and look into the mirror.

A reflected image of myself, appears in front of me.

They stare back at me as I stare at them.

Is this who I really am?

Is this who I want to be?

My thoughts are interrupted, by the reflection moving closer.

They stare at me, in awe of what it's seeing.

Am I really this reflection?

Am I who it wants to be?

Before I find any answers, my reflection disappears.

I look into the mirror, only to see nothing.

Why must this happen to me?

Will I ever find an answer?

This inner conflict will never end.

Will I ever know who I really am?

Will I ever know who I'm meant to be?

I'm left with doubts, and unanswered questions.

I will never find an answer.

I will never really know.

Has your soul ever been displayed,
Framed by thick wooden-glazed borders,
and set up in the gallery of another's life?

Can you say the painting of you
Beams with joy through heavy clouds,
Sliced by sharp shards of glass-like light?

If not, may you then brush-up yourself,
Quick blots of pink on sunken cheeks,
Lighten the shade under each eye?

Or will you draw the curtain,
Blind me to me, and you to you,
Pinch out the last flicker of fight?

I want to see who I really am, not who I thought I was because of my conditioning and history.

I chiseled away at my marble,
chipping off the faults they proclaimed,
carving the weird, the unworthy,
leaving veins of 'truth'
Fingerprints linger in the dust on the floor,
where the best remnants lay forgotten,
the shoes that were too goody,
the hips that were too round,
the laugh that was too loud,
the silly khaki-less fantasies tie-dyed
and woven with moonbeams.
I stood in galleries,
tying my approval to wanted 'yays'
but no one recognized the girl
who was still holding the hammer.
I sat beside her,
my hand upon the chasm,
where a heart should've burgeoned,
and felt only stone,
pining for her name within the dolomite.
The crows brought me a mirror,
reflecting the squareness I had tried to shape
from my hexagonal being,
edges missing, sanded down
to match the softness of the world.
'rebuild' they cawed
recementing, unhallowing,
letting the fractures bloom moss,
and the rough edges catch the light,
we are not meant to echo.
Let the gallery grow wild,
breaking through the sedimentary,
sparkling eternal agate
from the stardust of which we are made.

Am I as good a

friend, a lover, a driver --


as I think I am?

When we communicate and we don't feel seen - we may tend to intensify and overemphasize certain aspects. We identify stronger with them which makes them seem insurmountable and unchangeable. This is when we try to prove something.

I don’t think I could ever like my face,
not even on its best day.
It’s the only hall in my life
where you never lost your place.