Fiction

There is a mirror next to my bedside.

When i look at myself in the surface, I read my features in color.

Displayed like an open unpublished book.

I am the only one who can read the content because I am the author.

I can rewrite my story before it gets secured in print.

I could keep the blues and greens.

Discard the reds and oranges.

I could rearrange the rainbow with a flick of my finger.

I could fictionalize my existence.

Change capital letters into lower cases.

Italicize my memory.

Disregard backstabbing friendships,

And all the years I spent running to dissolve the flesh from my bones.

I could rewrite my first kiss.

And pretend I actually remembered

to close my eyes.

I  could forgive myself.

Forget myself.

I could brainwash myself into perfection,

Perfection.

Is that why blacks and browns aren’t included in the rainbow?

Nature throws away those that defy it.

Just like people throw away each other after a falling away.

There’s a mirror next to my bedside.

There is paper and pen torn from a notebook, and scrawled print

An unfinished sentence.

When I look in the mirror

My image is blurred,

Now is the time to rearrange the colors.

To complete the unfinished sentences.

Before securing my existence

I can cast away blacks.

Simplify every emotion with a period.

I can paste on an inauthentic smile,

So no one will ask any questions

I can be my own my own genre

My own form of fiction.

But in the end who will even remember reading a book

That is so unrelatable.