Endless daze, dust and heat bake every inch of my skin. Plants wither, eroded and dried, rain a forgotten hymn. The tides retreat, desolate shores, no encounter to be seen. My circadian rhythm shattered, sleep, a distant, fading dream. The sun, a tyrant, blazing bold, scorches the world in endless day, no trace of darkness, no respite, no shadows left to play.
The fog hung heavy on May 20th, clinging to everything in its path. I was staring out the kitchen window when a glint of light caught my eye. It seemed to be coming from the far end of the yard, reflecting off something I couldn't quite make out. A shiver of curiosity, mixed with a strange sense of foreboding, ran down my spine. I pulled on my jacket and crept out into the night, the damp grass muffling my footsteps. As I approached, the source of the light became clear. It was a mirror, propped against the old oak tree, its surface shimmering in the moonlight. I hesitated, my breath catching in my throat. Something about it felt wrong. But I couldn't resist. I took a step closer and peered into the glass. Instead of my own reflection, I saw a swirling mass of garbage – rotting food, broken toys, discarded clothes. It was repulsive, yet I couldn't look away. What did it mean? Why was I seeing this?
Black holes devour, unseen in the night, A void profound, where darkness holds tight. Yet, in that expanse, where shadows reside, Stars ignite, with brilliance their guide. Like distant beacons, they glimmer and gleam, Whispers of hope, in a cosmic dream. For even in darkness, despair's deep abyss, A flicker of light, a chance for a kiss. So let your heart soar, on wings of the night, Seek those bright stars, embrace their pure light. For within your soul, though shadows may loom, Hope's embers glow, dispelling the gloom. For when the night comes darkness, there are also stars.
The alarm clock screams, I drag myself to the sink, toothpaste minty, the bus a blur, then desk and dreams. The alarm clock screams, I drag myself to the sink, toothpaste minty, the bus a blur, then desk, but wide awake. All night, a blur of screens and laughter, goofing off, the hours lost to games. The alarm clock screams, a frantic rush, no time for the sink, the bus a blur, then desk, and heavy eyes. Head on the desk, a sudden jolt, the teacher's stare, burning shame, I hide my face. Exhausted, I sink into sleep, a heavy dreamless sleep, until the morning light.
No longer cutting, I have to feel the small burn and sweaty palm, knowing what I did was wrong. The whiskey I used to consume is no longer there; the burn of the alcohol masked the emptiness No longer questioning who I am or who I’m not I look to 988, knowing they have to let me speak my truth without needing to be ready for someone to feel defensive, as if they need to justify anything Witnessing my scars heal , both mentally and physically , no longer having to give explanations or reasons to my emotions No longer seeing the world half glass empty My soul is a glass , with how I’m feeling being the milk Seeing you across the room, then going back into reality , knowing I’m a mess like a glass of milk spoiled and spilt. The process starts over again, Spilling myself back into the mess I just cleaned off. The cuts start to open that burning sensation I crave no longer remembering the emptiness the glass half empty leaves in me. The buzz making me feel as if I didn’t spill anything Waking up in a sweat regretting my actions of cutting, drinking, and crying I go to my youth group the solution and the cause to my constant spills and mistakes But in the end after the 2 hour service I feel half glass full
