Stick Around

Looking in the bathroom mirror,
trying to see whomever resides there.
A presence inside my eyes speaks to me
without using words.
It hates that I see it;
it’s afraid I might free it.

Half a decade of wallowing in the dirt
saving everyone but me from hurt.
Eyes are meant to open after inflicting pain.
A mouth is supposed to speak.

Mentally crippled.
Away from the sane,
physically broken.
Fear, needle, vein.

It speaks: "You tell yourself a story, over and over, until you believe it to be true, and it becomes your planet, your life, your dreams, your alternate reality."

And as much as I scream and curse,
it's refusing to give me its name.
All it says is that I have myself to blame.

It screams: "Just call me the magnet; you make yourself sad; you’re blessed in every way, but I’m with you every day."

Every earth in every universe
they’re all flying freely in tune
with their favorite sound,
and I’m wingless,
buckets filled with tears
completely magnet bound.

The magnet spins around
and stays silent in my ears.
Robs all my hopes and dreams.
Replaces it with fears.

Like the earth, in light of the moon, has nothing to say.
Clay will stick to the ground in the very same way.