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  • Writer's pictureWolfpen

A Destroyed Sense of Self

Three poems by Theo Czepiel



GLASS


Staring in a mirror I see myself,


Beautiful and not broken.


The mirror shiny and perfect.


An ornate trim


of pretty little golden roses.


One day the glass shattered,


Ugly and broken.


Seemingly impossible


To be put back together again.


Just like me.


At first the glass wasn’t shattered;


There was only one tiny little crack.


So small,


that it would require


close inspection to be noticed.


Then the crack spread,


into an intricate web.


Till the glass became brittle;


Destined to break


Into glittery shards.


I tried to repair the mirror.

The image warped


pieces still missing,


some long forgotten.


However,


It is still a mirror.


With pretty little rose trim.


And I am still me.


Just a little bit cracked.


To someday finally see me.




Fun House


Welcome to my fun house,


My delightfully terrifying home.


A warped image of lies,


Begging and pleading


To be real.


My brain delighted,

In the horrors that it sees.


Taking in all the lies,


Believing them to be fact.


To be real.


This isn’t a fun house,


This is a cage.


A trap created by my own brain.


Allowing my hatred,


To be real.


Where I felt beautiful was on stage,


Disappearing in the music,


Running from myself.


Every other second hating myself.


Is this real?


Who had the right;


To look at a 14-year-old child


And destroy them...


What is even real?


My body was wrong to them,


So it was wrong to me.


Am I real?


They had no right to take me here.


Wondering what is real.

It isn’t real, and it never has been.





Halloween


A holiday filled with candy,


Delightful treats.


Terrifying tricks.


And scary movies,


That make you hide under the covers.


I am not lover of candy,


Or sickly-sweet treats.


I am a rule follower,


Not a trickster.


And I definitely can’t handle anything remotely scary.


However, Halloween is special to me.


My favorite in fact.


It was the one night a year


I could run from myself


And be anything but me.

I love everything supernatural.


Always wishing that could be my reality,


Transported into a new


Better life.


Where for once I was happy.


I would rather live in a haunted house,


Then my own.


My house was already haunted,


By pain and sorrow.


And the little girl who died there many years ago.


As the years passed,


I began to love Halloween for a different reason.


A form of self-expression;


And not one of self-hatred.


I get to be whoever I want,


But in the end


I am still me.


I may be a little weird,


But being normal is overrated.


Thank you for visiting my Haunted House.

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