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For a violent outburst...

Glaring At The Broken Glass Of A Washed Out Mirror

Picby Marc Lionhart15 Jun 2014

Standing over shards of myself scattered sporadically across a floor toiled by the rock-hard feet of noblemen and beauty queens, awaiting an explanation for what had just occurred

But that is not the beginning...

I awoke, like every other routine-steered early morning, and lay in my freshly washed sheets. I still had a bottle from the previous night firmly in my grasp
I ached from the split ends of my hair to the gouges in my run down feet
Those feet, caked in dust, drove me from my bedroom to my bathroom only to see myself reflected in the coarse glass mirror before me, I wept hard as I often do
I noticed markings like those of tribal warriors strewn along my face, etched in as if on firewood
My face, with independent thought, looked back with disgust, and my soul begged for mercy, on its knees with everything laying in front of it
My face is merciless, and therefore cast it to sunder
I fought the demon, at first with reason, but quickly it escalated into a bathroom brawl with nobody to apply wisdom or logic
I swung a fist made of stone hard at this window leading me inside myself, it landed in a fit of blood and passion
The pieces launched into a display of pandemonium and chose individual spots on the surface
I had not beaten it this time. The morning remained intact.