they said his eyes look like the reflection of his soul, dark.

it was a reflection you could only see through his empty photographs

feel through his lead like paragraphs

and taste through the Saturn drips that fell from his lips.

his hollow smile and dead like eyes depict nothing but stormy nights and shallow ends,

deep end that he jumps into whenever he feels like drowning.

cold like coal soul they thought

because he couldn’t be the way they thought him to be.

jumping every night

waking up dry

yet drenched in desperate sweat

they assumed.

a shell of a man they interpret his painting to be

his canvas predetermined and painted by their dark shades and colored paints of

“no, I’m not self-aware”

and

“I rather not see within me, because I’m just as hollow”.

actively projecting onto him their shortcoming and idiotic ways of “rightful thinking”

while all they know of him is that he sits upon his throne all day and smiles.

Gabriela A Tejada

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