Mirror, Mirror in The Stuff That's Not Interesting But Is The Most Interesting Stuff I'll Write

In the previous weeks, I’ve been put on a collision course with myself. Some of us will never see the light. We have our antlers locked in battle with something that forces our gaze anywhere but in the direction of our supposed opponent. We can’t see the changing face of the one who vexes us.

I cut through lovers like a scythe cuts through stalks of grain, and they lie limp, cast away at my side, dead and forgotten.

They never say no to me. I’m good at getting a yes. And when he spends the earlier part of the evening telling me that when he was a cool eighteen year old all those years ago, he was afraid of me because of the stories that flew around about me. Tales that told about my coldness and my inability to feel. Firsthand accounts of how I chillingly tossed people aside once I was done with them.

Being so sensitive about myself has made me narcissistic and completely oblivious and insensitive to the feelings of others. Perhaps it’s time that I learned to do something with the pain besides endure it.

When I took him the way he asked me to, looking up I saw his hot breath slide out of his mouth at the same moment he slid into mine. But the next day, it was my poisonous tongue that frightened him and had made him realize that she was what he wanted, like so many before him.

There’s always some vague shape in my mind that seems to be the thing that is against me. It’s always my mother and her expectations or the bureaucracy so I can scream “damn the Man” in righteous indignation. But those are self-deceptions.

The enemy is the one I see in the mirror. Because I am always looking at myself and never at others.