Self-Reproach

An offensive mirror produces my face, and ears listen to a hackneyed heart beat The stench of stagnant breath confirms my identity and smoker’s status. Sixty a day The cold floor held by blood drained feet, a razor held in hand at mannequin angle The bile in my throat and the fur on my tongue congealed with the sickly sweet syrup of life dripping out The door behind falls open on its own axis of gravity and the mirror reveals an empty room effused with a pall of used smoke, Like grey mists rising on a moor, seeking fresh lungs to enbalm. I am as alone as an unnamed star travelling the furthest reaches of space