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.

Poisoned doorway

 

Nothing grows

no moss-covered words.

Brickwork of

ivy climbing verbs.

No staccato cobweb messages,

all that remains is a faded visage.

A mental tirade of a home.

A graveyard of pained memories.

The doorway framed with poison,

the windows coated in unspoken verses,

the walls bled from the page.

 

The floorboards once rumbled

with gentle excitement,

the furnishing used to be

song loving flowers,

sunbeam curtains of diamond white.

The television rarely seen

amidst the wispy dreams

that coated the walls,

and music hugged

the ceiling beams.

Rooms that sparkled only

to be joyous.

Eruptions of hope

in flower filled chorus.

 

Now feet only crunch

over carcass shards,

broken promises

and stolen heartbeats.

Charred remnants

of love letters

lost.

Still burning hearts

fill the old fireplace,

but drifting embers

sweep up the chimney

into another dream.

 

Inside used to be cakes

baking in the summer heat,

the smell of love

bubbling on the stove.

We spoke. And we sung.

Of futures unseen,

of futures not to be.

Inside we danced our perfect

 

Prison...

 

For it was all lies.

The despising eyes,

the way the sighs

outplayed the highs.

The way every day

felt like a dark night.

The abuse of the mind,

under gaslit light,

and now the place sits empty

devoid of life or love of any kind.

It’s time to bring in the bulldozer.

In the dead Monday of the mind

 

In that long dark

night-time of the soul

it can feel cold and bleak.

The sounds of the trees

creak and bend. Unwanted

thoughts descend

and icicles ride your cheek.

 

It can hurt

when loneliness sits on a bed

in the dead Monday of the mind.

It can be unkind. When your own

reflections strangle your imagination.

Leaving you frustrated.

Gasping,

grasping for a

stray moonbeam

to clasp on to.

 

During those lonesome times

the air can feel heavy

like a stack of paper bricks

piled precariously upon your chest.

You breathe less.

In case the motion brings the whole wall

Crashing, like an ocean wave against

the mental cliffside that you have climbed

for so many lives that your

fingertips bleed just at the thought.

 

But in the darkness,

behind the looming terror,

away from the static of the void,

there is magic.

It drifts gently around, sifting

through the stardust view,

like flour through fingertips.

If you can catch it,

you will feel the clouds lift,

and as they part

hope starts to sound like

a harp of happiness, and light

winds its way into your heart,

whilst fear scarpers away

back into the dark.

 

And in that long night-time

of the soul. It can feel cold

and bleak. But when you brush away

the creeping vines that cling

so tightly around your mind.

You sometimes see magic.

The nocturnal,

the blur of golden fur

flurrying against the black,

as the fleeting fox flies by, seeking scraps,

the way the stars blink back.

The way the moon smiles and sighs,

looking down with loving eyes,

and these times make the spirit fly.