why can't I write all my feelings on paper?

How come I feel it now, but forget about it later

How come my heart feels it but my voice box can't vocalize it

How come when I have an idea, it gets lost

untraceable in the myriads of thoughts and fears

Why is it so hard to love myself? I’ve said I love you a couple of thousand times now in my life, but never to myself. It’s as if the word flows so easily when attaching to others, but when directed in the mirror it seems to be swallowed, caught in the back of my throat, unable to be articulated. Why have I never been taught to love myself? why do the movies only show a cinematic romance? why do I feel like i don’t deserve the love that i give others? 

He spends his life perpetually leaning over his feet, his muscles reconfigured to support this forward momentum. He finds himself unable to sit still, unable to slow down, for the force of each step is like a propeller into the future. He is drawn towards life like a magnet, each step another attempt at catching his fate.

He looks in the mirror dreaming of a reflection that he knows will not and cannot manifest. The face and body that stare back at him so blankly, are but reminders of the past. He brushes his teeth with the same worn toothbrush, the same worn motions of childhood captured in his muscles. His routine the only semblance of structure in his life provides a calcified security around the chaos of his mundanity.

Unlike most days, today he stares deep into his mirrored eyes, as if for once he is willing to grant himself time for reflection, a luxury very few are afforded. He imagines seeing the world spin through the fractals of his cornea, imagines life being born out of this intimate connection with his reflected self. For some unknown reason he thinks of his father, a sick man, a man he has tried to forget. His mind wanders as his eyes look down to his chest, a heart beating beneath stained skin and bone. Memories and regrets etched into his chest hairs, ideas of possible futures dripping down from the tips of his wet brow.

He feels simultaneously alone and yet somewhat supported by this stranger in front of him. He pushes his face to the mirror, as if trying to squeeze himself through the minuscule space between the atoms and come out on the other-side. He imagines the embrace of a lover, the sensuality of touch a withered memory, so distant now. Sometimes it’s as if he’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched, to be caressed, to be held up. His skin peels off the mirror, the mark of his face left imprinted across his fogged reflection. He smiles and as leaves for the door he swears sees the mirror smile back.