Slow decay

I wake up already tired and grim. It feels like a fight. I just can't win. A body that's riddled. Riddled with full-blown sin. I feel like a burden in every shade. Like an object in the way. I feel like a mass, useless, and broke. If only I just really spoke. The mirror laughs with a cracked up grin. It counts every flaw carved in my skin. It cackles and jeers at every "bad" shape. Maybe this is the reason I self-hate. Death waits at the end of my bed. Not cruel, not kind-just well read. Patient as dust, thin as breath. Tracing my pulse with a bored "not yet." Im broken and worn thin. I hold all this. Bottled within. No thunder. No dramatic fall. Just slow decay. Thats all.