I made it nine days without smoking. A semester of probably appearing as a nonsmoker to certain friends and acquaintances. Much more without thinking nostalgic thoughts about a silly, irrelevant girl named Alanna. Nineteen years without screaming gay to my family. I wrote down my fears, dried out tears like parchment.
Spoken Word
There are daggers of glass on the floor, you are shattered.
My name is not Steven and I've never had a film created about my lies.
But it would be the truth. I'm an honest person, editing my words.
They told me it's never too late in life to revise.
But revision means changing the past.
And I can't derail your gaze seeing around this misconception
to the scars on my back.
But I push forward.
Pretending my choices aren't breaking you,
and my weaknesses are themselves a choice.
I hate getting to know people, because it's only then
they find the image they've constructed of me is only paper. I'm blown like
poisonous darts into your eyes. Why won't you scream at me?
Please.
I hate this silence filled with accusations.
I kicked Jesus to the asphalt, and no one but my mother says "Go and sin no more."
But I don't believe in sin.
My foundation is built on guilt of harming humanity,
of harming existence,
I'm harming myself.
Potential is always the best path because reality never reaches the bar.
I can't hold on to you, my vices keep me in their grasp.
I can see from the downward cast of your eyes you've let go.
Me: falling towards a bottom that doesn't exist, there's always people falling faster or farther.
You: Every single friend, lover, mother, sister, father, brother, distant relation unrelated by blood.
I cut the cord connecting us
and try not to prick your finger
as our life force exists your body.
Your dissatisfied face reads like a name-tag; "Every person I've disappointed."
I follow your injury to the floor where now you lay.
I pick up your dead limbs,
pieces of a person.
And
vow
never
to
break
a
mirror
again.
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