The Interview

I am so tired of forever. Seems there was something I left behind in another life. I asked the mirror and the mirror said, “You can do better.” There are papers spread across my bed, Books strewn, open as wide as my eyes at five— "Where were you last night?" When she left I barely replied. I asked the mirror, and the mirror said, “You’ll rest only when you’re dead.” I’ve come all this way to sell myself; I can’t tell you how many selves I’ve killed, Just to keep from standing still. How many times I’ve wanted to smash all the high hopes, The façade, The box, The thoughts That tower god. I’ve given the keys back to my jailor In a cell that smothers me with my failure And beats my nature into a stranger. How is the pedestal still so very clean? I watch them kill to snatch their dream From the hands that rightfully receive; A Stockholm syndrome of high esteem. I’ve seen so many knives go in my thigh. I’ve taken them out with no reply. We all beseech for that unreachable lie To the sound of years just dredging by. But here we are at last. I stood as the suits opened up the door. Now that I've made it all this way, I don’t want it anymore.