Broken Mirror

Fragments of me, disjointed

Reflected and repeated

The effect is disorienting

And for a moment I forget

Who do I think I am?

Walls up against the world

Vulnerability safely disguised

Behind a mask of self confidence

Beneath an elaborate costume

Stumble disoriented, across the stage

Infinity mirrors and madness

Reach out a hand to steady

Not expecting to find yours

Firm and strong, but tender

Who do you think you are?

Climbing these walls

And tearing away this disguise?

And for the moment I remember

It was you who gathered the fragments

And put me back together

Header image: Infinity Mirror Room – Yayoi Kusama

Pretty

You said I had an interesting face

I knew you loved me then

When pretty girls were always eager

You chose a complicated woman

Not an easy path

Trampling the brittle bones

Of my past

While I would turn back

And try to resurrect them

Never really closing doors

So that the slightest breeze

Would blow them open

Oh, how you begged me

To give you the keys

But their weight in my pocket

Was a strange comfort to me

As if the chance to keep looking

At the scorched earth outside

Would remind me of the love

I now possessed

But even after all this time

With all your reassurances

And the absolute surety of your love

I can’t help but wonder if

You would have been happier

If my face was less interesting

Small Cuts (20) Genevieve

To find links to all parts of this story, please visit the Small Cuts Page. Here is Genevieve:

I think it’s finally happened —I’ve disappeared. No one will talk to me. They talk about me as if wasn’t here. What does that mean? I can’t see them, I can only hear them. They don’t even whisper, they speak in normal tones. Wouldn’t you think they would keep their voices down if they knew I was here? Maybe this is just a bad dream. Yet, it seems to be going on forever… I suppose that’s how it is in dreams. You can live a whole lifetime in the span of one night.

My mother and sister are here. They are always here. Or at least they used to be. Not so much anymore. Oliver, Daddy, and my brother, Craig were all here in the beginning, too. Beginning of what? The beginning of my fade from existence? Am I in a room in my parents’ house? That doesn’t make sense. There are too many other people here–people I only hear moving about in the dark, people I’ve begun to recognize simply by the noises they make. There’s one who chews gum loudly, one who sings bad ‘80’s music. “Everybody have fun tonight; everybody Wang Chung tonight!” Seriously? The worst one is the noisy breather. He —at least I think it’s a he— makes a sort-of squeaking noise drawing air in and breathing out through his (?) nose. Never says a word, just squeaks. I’m afraid of him.

Allison is crying. Don’t cry Allison. You were always Mom’s favorite.

I thought I heard Oliver and Daddy arguing, then Dad and Mom arguing. Then some other man –the loud breather, I think– trying to calm everyone down.

Maybe I lost time again. I think there are a lot of people here now. I can tell by the murmur of voices behind the ones I hear more clearly. Then everyone gets quiet and I hear just one voice, remotely familiar, but not at all welcome.

“God our Father…”

What is this? What’s going on?

“Lord, those who die…”

Stop!!! I’m not dead! Am I dead? Am I dead?

“…to sing your praise forever and ever. Amen.”

“Goodbye, Genevieve. Go in peace.”

Click.

****

I hope you’ve enjoyed (if you can enjoy such a gloomy story) reading Small Cuts. This was an exercise in writing outside of my comfort zone in both content and construction. I found it a challenge in organizing the four ‘voices’, keeping them all straight, and in writing a set of very disturbing themes: Self esteem issues, relationship issues, depression, and adultery. None of these characters was truly likable. That is what I intended. Thank you for reading and watch this space for new fiction as I develop some new ideas. ~ Meg Sorick