losing it.

i reside in a box, confined by blank faceless walls.
scraping at the protrusions of rough paint, each blasphemed tooth and nail
had reminded me of Sunday night when i got fucked up and died
in a bloodbath of hormone overdose and paranoia.
these prodding eyes and silver disguise, despised.
mutilated
amputated
castrated
to the barren floors, mind-pounding, side-winding
while singing something soft, yet, sad and delicate.
followed by wet fingers, then virgin knuckles, gauging and aiming at imaginary places
with the fresh image of particularly disgusting faces.
i had sensed the dagger in my writhing sleep,
that bitch of a weapon,
over and over, stabbing, releasing, and stabbing.
reliving each rouged strike that i had so rightfully deserved
feeling every past restrained moment of argument
finally released in each unwielded blow.
it was a silent evening in a silent bedroom, where movement matched intensity
and he was an asterisk.
it was the supermodel who was the narcissist.
i was the paper airplane.

that red paper airplane that broke your glass window.