body dysmorphic

Traded in your reflection,
just for one last glimpse.

Murdered,
banished,
left behind,
so that you can grasp at a mirage.

Longed for,
pined for,
even with its broken nose,
and bruised sockets,
tongue-tied,
black and blue.

Uneven geometry of the face,
cancer of the soul,
blank-faced,
dead-eyed,
staring into oblivion,
not like a deer in headlights,
but like the blind before a sunset,
when all they can see is the vacuum of space.

Bloody lips, 
grinding hips,
drunken non-memories,
the unfinished novel on your hard drive,
the unfinished song in your throat,
whose only metronome was your heart beat,
with its limited pumps,
with its audacity to live on,
even when your mother died,
even when you wanted to die too.

Eaten up by those heartbreakers you never really knew, 
consumed by a consumerist obsession,
pretty boys with vapid stares,
and such good bone structure,
even though they’re still only bones,
and the one you really needed,
was curled up in his chrysalis,
beautiful, hidden, secretive,
lost to the world,
an empty grail,
dripping from your own bloody nose,
your broken nose

Your own imperfect bone structure,
your droopy eye,
your fear of the dark,
which swallowed all of your dreams,
and spit out a twenty-something,
small-hearted and quietly dying,
lost soul, 
glued to the present,
denied a glimpse of the future,
and drowning in a murky past.

Coughing up globs of fog, 
weeping tears of glass,
which don’t suffice to build a mirror,
and see back into its origin,
that spot in your mind,
where a child weeps,
cries out for the home,
you can never go back to.

There is another way,
a second reflection,
a projection of the soul,
onto the other,
that takes you back when you want,
and takes you forward too.

It dreams of waking up,
so open yourself up from navel to nose,
until your aching everything,
spills on the pavement.

Until the atoms in your bones, 
rejoin his dust,
and there is nothing left to reflect.  

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