Dirty Mirrors With a Glass Mind

Your mind of glass, as fragile as it is unspoken. Unquiet wiring, as loud as it is fierce. Through collisions of insensible trajectory, bursting into a splattered mist of words are your rioting thoughts. The sculpture of tranquil exactitude lies upon your face, misleading the world of the burdened and tender self, blossoming. I felt it. Your wounded rawness is fanning itself to the rhythm of the enslaved wondrous you. Deafened soldiers live on your insides. They shoot at one another without hearing mutual cries. You smile at their nonsense, ever hurting. Gasping for something other than fury, ''Soon she will let go, SOON!'' Your entity, a secretive garden that shed everlasting light. You are a contradiction. Bloodshed inwardly, yet mirroring the joys of the smiles you wish were your own. I feel you, as if I were the journal in which you breathed your truth. You have touched my mind, reaching out for common grounds. Your battlefield, your war, your ending: a mended reality. Your sewn up story, now lost.

The first time I had witnessed pain—not the kind of dried-up scab-like pain, the blood-gushing-heavily-fragmented-broken soul pain—was while envisioning you battle whatever was plaguing a luminous soul. You sat there as if your body had become cement; heavy and sunken into the depths of the floor. Your lips had beaded sweat around the corners of your mouth and your eyes were swollen from the heavy tears that had been unshackled. There were endless broken bottles shattered on the wooden floor; the freed wine was bathing within the cracks. I would later read your kind of pain through the pages you had daringly written, unleashing the hungry wolves. Quarrelled brain activity. I remember you equally intense, yet differently. Lightness of the mind, you were at times a replica of a smile. I sit here, heavily ringed around the eyes, wondering about the stranger who lived within me; the perception of who I thought you were and whom I loved ever so deeply. Who were you while I saw your lips tint happy shades, sharing meaningful glares. I sit here like a piece of a shipwreck wanting to hold that burning sadness, cajoling it. I read your writings as if I had given birth to them. Your candle burned out before it was lit. What went ever so wrong with the song that was your life?

Remnants of you. That's all. The remnants, so bittersweet.