I stare into the eyes in the mirror. I am a warped Escher painting. Watching myself watch myself while watching myself.
The perfect Eternal critic.
My eyes trace the smooth contours and chiseled lines slicing across my body. New-yet-unimpressive edges that took me a year to carve with the adze of lazy discipline.
Dozens of glassy gazes stare through me. I pierce my own illusions with hundreds of knowing stares.
I can feel the sickeningly soft growth of spoiling when I swallow. I'm afraid to open my mouth. I might be greeted by fuzzy white spots and black patches.
I still feel a literal weariness in my heart, some days. Born from longing and nourished from bone-deep regret.
I exhale dissatisfaction so dense it fogs my eyes. I close them against the tears that invariably form my melee against memory. Tiny milky droplets that smell of chlorine and blanch my cheeks shades of geriatrics.
12:09 a.m. - 2014-07-30
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