Broken Glass | VI

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         This is not a new beginning. I can write

         a thousand words and my letters will still

         seem broken to you. I can spill myself open—

         for you to understand how the pieces

         of me have gone missing, only for

         you to see an upside down reflection

         of something that doesn't even have a point

         on your threshold of pain.

         And even if you were to get every drop

         of tear out of this tub of overflowing

         carmine concoction, you'll still find

         what i bleed to be a wasted lie,

         a wasted poem of sentences that

         weren't sincere enough for you to realise that you—

         yes you too, are at fault for my misery.

          So you break, like tempered glass

         your temper strays in multiple directions,

         to the past, the future and the present—

         in which you stay staring at the cracked

         sideview mirrors, that no longer seem

         to accurately show what your pride allows

         you to see, a truth that is but a wild belief,

         discolored in your irises, defected in your lens,

         distorted on your retinas, diminished in your pupils—

         and still I remain dismembered in your mind.

  

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           B R O K E N            　           ✧                

                                  G L A S S    . °       

                                                     .˙     VI                

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