The grip on my disposable razor Is tighter than the grip of my own reality. Reflection distorted by the humid condensation, I still see my hands trembling as I shave. I still see the designer bags under my eyes.
The familiar aroma of shaving cream, Paired with the sobering twinge Of the nicks from my razor. The haphazardly spilled pills, Horizontal bottles in the medicine cabinet.
White-knuckling the porcelain sink, Decorated with dried toothpaste and the blood of my gums. I reflect to my reflection Distorted by drip drops of tap water,
“Am I still myself? Or simply a prospect of my own delusion?”
A poem on what it is like to go through a depressive episode at the beginning of your day. Don't give up though, it does pass!
i am a hypocrite i have my fair share of selfish days i only do it differently self harming, i mean i chug alcohol like i should be poise in sipping milk inhale like i'm not slowly being addicted sideway shaving is as close to actually cutting i'll ever get and i'm a fake albeit i like to think i'm not i like to think my smiles are real and 70% of the time, they are mostly.. but that 30% still exists and that's proof alone that i'm a hypocrite