The acrylic mask

 

Your put downs hurt me,

the way you shaped the narrative,

through flicked brush lines,

with every time you drew me

small, invisible,

weak, stale, insignificant,

frail, feeble,

like I wasn’t an equal but

a project that just needed

a few more lines,

a bit more refinement, 

some parts rubbing out,

to be replaced with

your own warped art.

 

But what hurt more

was when I started to agree.

When I started to pick up the brush

and scrub away the previous lines.

When I fell back down a hole

I’d spent so long climbing.

You were projecting

a false image upon me,

you layered up every detail,

every smeared brush stroke,

I was a canvas for you to emote

with your own self-doubt.

But my own self doubt

was painting it all as true.

And that hurt more 

than any extra coat could do.

 

You tried to implant falsehoods,

telling me what I was doing, when

in truth your mind

was lying to us both.

You saw only the hurt

that someone could do,

blind to the truth

sat in front of you.

But you painted me

with so many different layers

that I was no longer there,

I was just a facade

of the man I could be.

I started to see myself

as an acrylic reprint,

not the me I’d already inked

through my life previously.

 

I’ve always believed

I was wearing a mask.

Putting on a persona,

to cope with the world.

But after peeling the layers

of paint from my skin,

I’ve begun to realise

that the face staring back

at me, in flakes of dried fear,

is the mask that you

painted upon me,

and the true person beneath

is the one happy in their skin.

Long road

In the dead of night

on that lonesome road

where the angels scream

and demons roam.

I heard a sound

Aching.

A tornado spinning

the endless days

into one thick

moment of night.

Grinding me

into the ground

in fright.

 

Heartbeat

playing hide and seek.

Fight or flight.

Heart crashes

to the ground

and lays

playing dead.

 

And I freeze.

As the strobing light

fill the sky

A face.

Gone.

In the blink of an eye.

 

Flash.

Face closer now.

Darkness.

Now nowhere to be seen.

A mask.

A hollow figure cast

in silhouette.

A vapour cloud

of a memory. It’s me.

Armed to the teeth with

putdowns to let loose upon me.

 

And I feel the punches

raining down

as the storm

hangs above me now,

thunder clouds my mind

I hear the sound

hailstones

crashing into my head.

But there is

nobody around.

The path is empty.

Just darkness ahead.

Flash.

A smile. No. A leer.

One I’ve seen before, so many times.

Where?

My mind mirrors memories

as

eyes fade to black.

Is this death?

Or am I just losing

conscio....

 

Behind my lids I see red.

I see confusion and dread.

I feel nothing.

 

The red fades to pink.

I’m floating on

cotton candy dreams.

I pluck shooting stars

from behind my eyes

and plant them deep into my heart.

For hope conquers fear.

Or at least it’s a good start.

 

I awaken. In bed.

No dark road, just four walls

and a hot cup of hope.

And whilst the roads ahead

may be fraught,

the fear I hold taut,

or the fear I’ve been taught,

is all in my head.

Reflections in the bathroom mirror

 

I stand under bathroom light,

mirror emblazons

a mask of lies. My life in

imposter syndrome dreams

across my eyes .

As the echoes

of days limp on by.

 

In the dim lit night

every drop of red,

bled from ground down gums,

appears like ink 

smearing the sink in memories,

that only come when the

gravelly voice that screams

back at me, gently weeps.

Wishing to be

cleansed of the self-doubt

in every word he speaks.

 

Late nights

and distressed

dreams

sit in bags

beneath the eyes,

spilling their contents

over the cold floor.

The rush of water

floods my mind

and inside I’m drowning

under the interrogating lights

of this torture cell,

lungs filling with

the burning pain of a scream

that I can’t let out.

For if I do, more water will pour in.

 

Age worn eyes stare at

the reflection, glaring back at me.

The confidence

that once bathed me,

now circles the plughole

before it gurgles,

mimicking my voice.

The face staring back

seems older than

the years account for.

More than the Calander pages

torn up across the floor.

 

Bloodshot blue eyes

sit under greying highlights.

Age draining

the remaining colour

down the sink.

Leaving only

a faded memory

wilting in place,

whispering as days

gurgle away.

 

I turn the taps full

and take a swimming handful,

brimming through fingertips as

I splash across my face.

Washing away the fear,

I look to the face and whisper

in softened tones,

getting old?

Not on your life.

Just wiser.

And I smile,

turning off the light

and step outside.

The mirror a lie, when my heart

has eternity on its side.