Introspection Part I (a very old poem).

sensitivity, apology, so called inability, inferiority that stretches out to infinity, this is your epitome whispered back and forth between the fragments of your newest shell and impression is the hijab to your expression. expectant eyes draw falseness from your guilt-sharpened tongue and your words are tangled and your voice is stripped bare, and they dare in a twisted game of hide and speak to trip over each other in their nervousness. sullied by the threat of your own self-doubt and shamed by your pitiful eagerness to feel something other than Other you abound in superfluous apologies not for lack of sense but for foolish hope and for your unfortunate banality in the face of desperate pleas to be perfect.

your mould is made.

vague political correctness and rehearsed righteousness are sketched out and filled in with helpless flaw, and happiness is a distant memory tasting of shame, pain and sarcasm. the shapeless fear of rejection and of choking on your own strangled mind folds into itself a hundred thousand times and wrenches itself free in a fit of indignation and implodes in a fit of silent screams etched so deep in your soul your eyes take the shape of their cadence. and the hurt of it all burns on your face and on your lips and scalds holes in the palms of your hands and you look up –

and you see the blankness and you feel the coldness of the abyss staring back at you and it’s abysmal. but the problem is, you, are always fooled by the crystal clarity of the blackness that you see.

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