Blood On the Mirror
You prod at the sores of your heart
with a hemorrhaging pen, wishing it was
a scalpel; so you could carve
out the disease that keeps
your rage alive.
Basic instinct, I suppose.
To slay the demons,
that made you who you are.
You thank them for your posture,
but scold the obsidian eyes in the
mirror. What you have become:
Callous, and engulfed in the
rotting theater you thought
you controlled. The reigns
have broken loose, your
skull whips in the wind of
chaos. It’s not really your
sort of dance, you know…
You don’t know the steps
…you don’t even know the song.
It drums against your flesh
as if you were already stripped
and tanned, spread across
the hallowed instruments
of reckoning.
But you can’t hear the chant,
only the distant hum of the
butcher who said you could
call him “friend”.
That you were safe,
if only you would show him
what you promised you would
never show anyone.
It drips,
thick,
coagulated,
dirty.
Just like every part of you,
you wish you could burn;
As you dig the covenant,
into the flesh of your enemy;
Your only true, enemy.
The mirror cracks…
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014
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