To All The Things That Break

You stand in front of the mirror again; trying to understand the twisted figure in front of you. Those eyes portrude from their sockets, and the redish veins almost cover the white parts. There's a cold sweat running down your cheek and you notice your lips opened in an usightly manner; as if breathing through that opening is the only method left.

You stare and try to concentrate, without that voice constantly screaming at your head. Those moments of short sobriety gives you a glimpse of just who you are looking at. A hazy image without a permanent form and so, you see a lot in that mirror. 

You see failure, remorse, regret, rejection, pain, misery, depression, anxiety, melancholy, nausea; a mixture of all those things that leads a person to swing floating near a lying chair with their necks adorned by a rope. Or wrists with bracelets made of blood that soon turn into a puddle of unsightly red. At times you are lucky enough to experience just one. But would you still refer to it as lucky if you're picking from a pack of short straws? 

You look in that mirror everyday, yet you never got to decipher exactly who or what you are looking at. And now your hands clutch on the procelain surface of the sink, while you feel the tears falling effortlesly from your eyes. There is nothing much to see, and you wonder just when you'd get a clear image of the person before you. 

But maybe the day would come.

That you would not even recognize who you really are.

Just a bunch of broken shards.

Never anything whole.