on me

on me


Not the storm, not the thunder –

What tucks me in sweat

Every night

Are the masks hanging on my ceiling.

 

Impeccable lines of live blood

Hover over me;

Grinning on my sanity,

Slowly slipping away.

 

I snap the ceiling, piece by piece,

Pulling away at the threads.

The masks drop and make

A sound –

Reverberating

Through the entirety of me.

 

The echoes drown,

But not before

They reach the roof,

Rumbling on my ground,

Coming down at me.

 

The facades lay broken

In pieces before my feet,

And beside it does the roof,

Not knowing it fell for

Nothing.

 

The pieces repair,

Brushing themselves red again

Climbing and stamping

On the debris

That collapsed on my land.

 

The roof bleeds unconscious,

Unaware.

And when it opens its eyes,

The impeccable grin awaits its arrival.

 

And the roof remains

Broke on my soil,

The masks up high again.

The blame is, of course,

On me.


[ sometimes, i witness things that i wish didn’t exist, like the dual nature of light, at a gigantic level, emitted from human beings. i’ve always been one of those people who run in the opposite drection when encountering someone i feel won’t be a positive experience to me. i try to move on and think that goodness in people exist anyway. but then they turn on their friends for petty reasons and then smile their way when faced eye to eye.

well, let’s just hope the roof stops falling down for the undeserving. ]

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