I Have a Broken Mirror
I have a broken mirror in my room. It is a full length body mirror, about 4 feet high, with thin plastic framing standing in the corner. This mirror had a history as a hand-me-down before coming to me, and to that history I imposed upon it my literal reflection every day as I woke up to get ready for school. The mirror in its previous unshattered state saw me crying at my most vulnerable and laughing with my most esteemed. It saw moments of intimacy, despair, fruition, exhaustion, loneliness and joy. I came to identify strongly with this mirror and the reflection I thought I saw projecting back at me. One night, as I drunkenly stammered back into my room, I heard a loud crash follow my footsteps and my blood trailing closely behind. As I picked up the mirror in a daze, I find in front of me, standing in the dark, a complex and beautiful array of shards standing upright in a cheap plastic frame. I tell nobody about the incident and continue to dress and undress in front of this shattered reflection of myself daily. My friends, like most who see this reflection of me, note […]
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Displace my body from this room. Slight crevices at its corners suffocate White leaking edges. Like a small, life raft in the middle of the ocean, my body and its many iterations slowly modify themselves to shield generations of obsessed desires. I try to fill the holes that the puss keeps leaking out of an in, slowly more corpses rise and they do take on the shape necessary to seal the room in their contorted and misshapen state. Desperate to save this space from its impending fate of suffocation and implosion. In a gasp for air I whisper to one of them: Dear ancestor, what has become of you? My mind shifts in chaos to imagine yet another room: one with walls so distant and void from infinite desire. Distilled self pursuit enveloped with imagination and hope. In here there is only one mind, one soul, one body that is me and only me. For in here, void of misconceived loneliness, I am free to pursue the ultimate act of masturbation. I cradle myself in a fetal position and I imagine one truth. The sweet embrace of mother’s womb. I float in an expansive dark space that my imagination’s eye […]
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If My Mother Birthed Your Fantasies
If My Mother Birthed Your Fantasies She would weep. Wail out the tears of generations to be destroyed by your stubbornness. Your absolute stupid thing, you know, that thing you do that really pisses me off. God damnit that thing!
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