Mirrorball

The window is closed,
the curtains drawn.
I could write about—
the sun rays,
the moonlight,
the few stars
in the polluted sky.

But all I see is a cement wall
staring back at me,
a blank page
that would crumble itself,
too tired waiting for me
to spill some ink on it.

But I can write
about a constellation
I never saw,
how the stars aligned
for lovers that never existed.

I wrote about them back then,
described the colorful wings
of butterflies that never fluttered,
roses that dried out.
There's no story in that
red I never received.

What the breeze whispered,
a message of hope
on a sad day
when I walked in this noisy world,
my earphones plugged in,
wanting to run away
No advice or hopeful words
would find themselves on paper.
The ink dried out by now.

I could use all the metaphors,
a soul-touching poem
presented for you.
But how do you describe a void?
No words reach there.
Parts of myself circle it
on nights when I can't sleep,
one of them weighing
all the broken pieces
with the dark shades of the others.

"Your shade is still brighter."
"You should be happier."
"Look at the black mark death left on her."
"He's truly heartbroken."
"Ungrateful."

My cheeks would turn red,
head bowed low in shame.
I drop the pen.
Like a sword it would fall,
its clatter heard by none 
how else do I describe it?

A dramatic version
to be presented to you:
a worthless story,
a silly girl with her pens,
no hold on herself,
no identity of her own,
just a mirrorball
flashing unstable versions
of herself.
~K