I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.

title is the first line in "Mirror" by Sylvia Plath

"Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon."
"The eye of a little god, four-cornered."
"I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers."

i’m sorry i’m running away,
i’m sorry i don’t like myself,
i’m sorry that i think that if only i
can move my feet fast enough
then i’ll be able to leave myself behind.

i know this makes no sense to you
and i know you think i’m mercurial,
i know you think i’m unreasonable
and i make no sense, i know that
you think i’m quick to fire and slow to calm.

but the truth is, i’m living less in reality
and more in words and letters and verses.
my heart lies more in sentence structures
than it does in test dates and school schedules.

i get that this, this art does not hold the same
importance, the same impact as it does for me.
i get that writing will always be my thing
and never quite yours, never quite there
in the way that it is for me, i get that
you will never breathe and beat poetry
through your broken lungs the way i do

i understand, but i don’t think you do.
the thing is, i’m running the best i can
and you’re just stuck still in the life you’ve built
i am trying to escape while standing still
and it’s working better than you want it to
because i am going places you people
never wanted me to go to, never desired for me

i would apologize again, but i think we’re beyond that.
i’m a wounded animal, and you don’t quite know
just how you’re supposed to deal with me, don’t lie
i know you better than i know myself, i think that
nobody ever really saw me for what i was -
i have always been a ticking time bomb
and trust me, you don’t want to be there
when i run out of time, when i explode
and take my life with me into the void

i love you, and that means nothing.
i wish it did, god do i, but it does not.
my mind is a mess of spider webs that i
have built for myself among the wreckage
of all of the facades i let myself believe in,
i am a person whose identity is not yet solid.

you don’t get this, but nobody really does.
my sickness isn’t anything you can comprehend,
and i’m scared to let you try - i want to chop all my hair off,
another thing i’ll never let myself tell you, they just line
themselves up like hearts waiting to be shot into oblivion.

my secrets are lies by omission, i don’t know if i want to
destroy the image of the white-picket-fence, perfect-plot life
that you think you want and will have. i am defined by
sleepy wake-ups by people leaving the country in an hour.
that is at least part of who i am - everyone i know
only says hello when they’re saying goodbye too.

i’m going to grow up to be someone you can’t see.
you’re never going to want to introduce me to
your boyfriends, partners, kids, friends.
i don’t want to be the family closet-skeleton,
but i’m afraid it isn’t much my choice.
i guess it’s my turn to be the public disgrace.

i want to believe in god,
i want to love with abandon,
i want to say something and mean it,
i want to be what i should,
i want to want these things.

but i can’t - it’s not the way i’m wired,
and i have no idea who i’ll be,
my fate is a cloudy distance.
it changes with each choice,
it is not defined, just like me.

i used to idolize you until i realized
you have flaws just like the rest of us.
i think you wanted to take care of me
until you realized i can’t be cured.

my life is a sad song, i am not a chapter,
i’m an entire book - the ink bleeds away
into tiny rivers of print, but it’s moving too fast
for me to read the warning it spells out.

please, go away. we both know how this ends.
i am a hopeless case, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.
i wish it could be different, i wish i could be different,
i wish i wasn’t running like my life is a marathon,
i wish i wasn’t trying to outrace myself.

but i am.
i’m sorry.
i love you.

(bang, bang,
gunshots can't take me down.
you know we're only immortal
until the day we die.
living on borrowed time,
the devil's the only friend i've got.
gunshots can't take me down
bang, bang.

we're beautiful and bloody and metaphysical,
we're unreal and transparent and dead
before we were born, we were destined to die.
our birth is only a timer counting down.

The End

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