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.

existing only in the memory, in the mirror
sublime image, a dotted line
wanting, crashing, writhing fatally
imaginary conversations, air drawings

no friend to call mine, intimacy denied
crunchy brain turning to foam
classes blurring, ears ringing
banging the floor till wrists are bruised

profanity, cruelty, pretty girls hating
feeling unwanted by boys (and the girls)
invisible or dissolved?

dishonoured, disgruntled, disillusioned, disenchanted
how right I was all alone
my subconscious mind sending tremors
       disconnection with my own spirit

"I am" I constantly whisper to myself
  in the little gaps of time I'm not dissociated
   fully aware of my material,
                                    not a vaporised form
that I assumed from the treatment of others

vapours solidify, vaporise, dissolve and vanish

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Eating yourself like this
Gnawing at muscle and bone
Just to feel at home

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Cheating yourself like this
Quitting before the game begins
Just to wallow in your sins

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Beating yourself like this
Smashing your head into walls
Just to silence the noise of it all

You need to stop treating yourself like this.
Defeating yourself like this
Betting on a losing dog
Just to hide in the fog

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Deleting yourself like this
Editing your words before you speak
Just to hide the feelings underneath

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Repeating yourself like this
Echoing past excuses and mistakes
Just to avoid the time healing takes

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Completing yourself like this
Assuming this is how your story ends
Just to never make amends

You cause your own downfall
You make yourself doubtful
But you can change your tune
Let the light in and bloom

I mourn the self that was taken from me.
A beautiful woman that I’ll never be.
A stunning reflection that I’ll never see.

Instead, a short man, barely any stubble.
Will be made, created, formed out of her rubble.
In a sense, I’m two people, metaphorically double.

I’m the man that I am, but also her too.
She lies in the organs and ******* that I grew.
She never would have existed if earlier I knew.

She is my body, and he is my mind.
Though sometimes I want to, I can’t leave either behind.
I hope if they were to meet me, they’d say I am kind.