I stare at my reflection.
White specks attempt to
dissuade my emotional outbursts
by screaming "clean me, clean me!"
but I cannot even take care of myself --
my appearance is a mess already,
tears mar my skin like acid.
My hands choose not to wipe them
all away,
but sit at my sides, twitching, fiddling.
I cannot control what lies in front of me,
even it it's myself I attempt to subdue.
This mirror, then, must be thrown aside,
discarded, its usefulness eradicated for men
such as I.
Take it back, or from wherever it came from,
for I'd rather not be reminded of that
wretched soul,
hidden behind shrouded irises
bespeaking only what which those
are willing to endure.