u/Xaric2

Black drip. Corrosive.

Staining the mattress, eating the bone.

Bile in the throat, thick and cold.

An empty skull where the rot takes hold.

Weeping shape in the cracked glass.

No face. Just the raw, open red.

Fingernails tearing drywall to lines.

Begging for the quiet dark instead.

The skin crawls. Moving underneath.

Maggots feeding on things we hide.

The machine clicks, rusted and through.

Nothing left but the ache inside.

Shadows tightening. Knot at the throat.

The scream catches, thinned to a gasp.

Sink into gray, the endless mud.

The final spark slipping the grasp.

A mirror used to tell me I existed.
Now it tells me I’m what’s left.

It’s everywhere—
across the floor, in my hands,
pressed into places I can’t reach.
I see myself in pieces that don’t agree—
a mouth that looks like it’s lying,
eyes that look like they’ve already given up,
a face I swear I’ve never fucking lived inside.

Nothing fits.
Not the glass,
not the person,
not this goddamn weight of waking up inside it.

I keep trying to put it back together
because that’s what you’re supposed to do—
fix what’s broken,
become something whole again—
but the edges reject each other,
like they know this shit isn’t repairable.

So I force it.

I press the shards together in my hands
until they bite,
until something real finally happens,
until the pain makes more sense
than whatever the hell this emptiness is supposed to be.

And even then—
even then—
it doesn’t work.

All I get
is a clearer picture
of how ruined it is.
Of how fucked I am.

There’s no single reflection anymore.
Just copies of something I don’t want to be,
repeating from every angle,
trapped in every piece.

I can’t escape it
because it’s not the mirror that broke.

It’s me—
spread out,
unfixable,
and impossible to look away from.

The mirror keeps a face I don’t,
It wears me wrong in subtle ways—
The eyes too dull, the jaw too slack,
Like something left too long in place.

It doesn’t shout. It never needs.
It leans in close and speaks like fact:
You’ve always been this kind of weak.
Don’t look away. Don’t fucking act.

It drains the color from the day,
Turns hours thick as cooling tar,
Till time just sits inside your throat
And won’t move on from where you are.

You try to hold a single good—
One thing that didn’t fall apart—
It twists it slow inside your hands
And feeds it back to prove your part.

Every almost comes back sharp:
The words you lost, the chances missed,
Each small, pathetic reach for more
Reduced to something to dismiss.

There’s no collapse. No clean-cut break.
Just this—again, again, again—
A quiet pressure in your chest,
A slow, familiar kind of end.

The glass is smeared. You wipe it clean.
You press until your fingers ache.
It doesn’t shift. It doesn’t crack.
It shows you more with every shake.

And when you finally stop and stare,
Too tired to argue or pretend,
It almost feels like honesty—
Like this is how you’ve always been.