Point.

[rewiiired]

Point to all the mirrors
that others make of others,

selectively ignoring
your own denied demons
dancing all about
on their reflective skins

wage a war outside
to battle despite of
but nonetheless in
deep, ruthless denial

with enemies
within-made-outside
and enemies of
past-made-present.

Go ahead.

Point to me,
accuse me of proclaiming
that I know everything
as if you know enough of me
to judge my self-perception

up from atop
your self-fashioned pedestal
adorned in justifications
that seem empty of all
but emotionally-fueled rationale.

Go ahead.

The distractions of reflections
will protect you, help you
suppress to overcome
just so you can forget you,

so go ahead and just

run as fast as you can,
push the thresholds of your tolerance
till you feel as if you are the point
of a speeding blade,

slicing through everything,
through awareness, self,
through your own thick,
layered skins,

for you're doomed to one day
collapse, the hall of mirrors
fallen, shattered,
with you finally forced
to confront you.