You

I'd like to think of this as a first draft, a poem about self.

"You"

I said,
"You
are nothing.
I don't want to see your face,
your pace brings me to a place
where I can fill up with distaste,
where I can recreate a sullen state
where I just want to lay down and
shut blinds, curl up tight, and say
good night.

I can't look at you sometimes when
feeling confines my conscience,
cradling, caressing, crawling,
creeping, consecrating my
sins. For all to see, looking up
I can see memories where I,
I felt so symbolic.

Taken within my shaken heart,
I always knew, from the beginning
I'd never find a way to
like you, to love you, to
say that I could live without you,
and what you've become."

Then I turned around
and walked away, with
my back to the mirror.