Bags below these tired eyes I’m feeling tired. Touch my unshaved face, messy pricks of hair growing above flaky shedding skin. This face a bit cold, grey and showing age, I touch with weak brittle fingers, slow paste slithering around this nose and lips. Stopped where lives a monster, surfacing on supposed human face. Pet it, my eyes droop, the iris smalls, heart slows. The monster, worm in size, thunder in shape, it never moves, always noisy but no one hears, only see. Lives beneath my nose, above my lips, but fester my heart. Won’t ever leave, wont stop snarling, breaks my heart, breaks my will. It looks so ugly, I look so nasty.
In the mirror, that’s what I see.