The Nigger in the Mirror, The Monster Behind the Glass

Tim_Braid

Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder what the hell I am doing here. I wonder if it is worth taking another breath, taking another gasp of air of life. I look at the stuttering nigger standing before my very own eyes, he looks like a fool when he looks at me, and he looks like an idiot when he stares at me when he stares from beyond the glass. His name is stuttering Stanley, and he knows he’s a stuttering fool.

 

He stares at me like nigger without a brain, waiting for me to do something, waiting for my ass to die. And I would die if I could but I can’t because I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to go to the store and get a bottle of sleeping pills and shove them down my goddamn throat, like a goddamn madman because this goddamn madman is conflicted. To do or not to die, that is the question I ask myself over and over again and over and over again I get no response from the man above, the human being in the sky.

 

I think of death often, and more times than not death thinks of me, I am sure this is the case because we have such a close and special relationship with each other. A special kind of friendship only I can see and understand. It’s a friendship that goes deeper than lover and even deeper than hate itself. I often wonder to myself what it would be like to die. Where would I go? Who would I meet in the world sugar and cream? Will I still be a nigger stuck in a nigger’s body? A fool standing beside a fool? Will my mind be at peace in this place above the world of worlds?

 

I think these things often when I lie asleep at night gazing at the stars above at night. I think about a lot of things when I lie down in my bed counting down the days I have left on this planet, the years I have left on this earth. I think a lot and I write a lot, it is what I was born to do, it is who I am and what I am about. I may be a stuttering nigger but I am a stuttering nigger who thinks about a lot of things other than death. I think to myself what more can I do to get out of this hell hole. What can I do to rid myself this undying madness corrupting my heart and ruining my soul?

 

I think about these things, but at the end of the day when the sun is down and the moon is shining, it still hurts when I breathe. It hurts waking up in the morning to a world where broke niggers and stuttering Stanley’s are not accepted in general society. They are shunned upon, people look down on us because we are different, they look at us differently because in their eyes we are crazy fools with no direction and no focus. We are nothing to the common people, nothing be wasted space on earth.

 

I am living in a world where I am a dead man walking, I’m an invisible shadow, I am a invisible ghost with no home to call my own. Every time I look in the mirror and see my reflection staring back at me I want to reach out and grab the man in the mirror because that man is not a man at all, that man is a shadow, he’s a ghost!!! He’s a broke nigger in drag and I hate this person staring back at me, I hate this person in the fucking mirror. I hate this monkey bastard and the monkey bastard hates me!!! The hate is mutual, the shame is consensual.

 

This bastard, this nigger fool was born to be a failure, he was born to be a man who at the end of his life amounted to nothing because the pills consumed him, the anger, the hatred, the shame, the guilt it all drove him away to a place of madness. It drove him away from all that is good in the universe. It drove him away from all that is right in the world. The friends he has made on this planet, the people he has met on this earth are all good people and in one way or another, they love him deeply. They love the man in the mirror, they love this monkey standing behind the glass but the problem is this monkey does not love himself and it’s killing him softly, it’s killing him so painfully slow.

 

The man in the glass goes into his closet, he closes the door, and he weeps. “Why are you in the closet?” I ask the man behind

the glass, “What the hell are you crying for you ugly son of a bitch? What the hell is wrong with you you filthy little nigger?” I bang on the door “Stop crying you son of a bitch” I scream, “stop crying right now or I’ll”—The door opens, a dead body lies before my eyes laying motionless. I scream like a madman, I scream like a fool because the body laying before my very own eyes is not a man at all “A woman!!!” I exclaim, “What the hell is a woman doing in my closet?” I look closer and realize it is my “Mom” I say in awe, “is that you” “Yes dear, it’s me sweetheart, it’s your momma in the flesh” she responds. I back away in horror, terror fills my heart. What the hell is this I think to myself, What the hell is going on. What happen to the man in the mirror. What happen to the man and the nigger???

 

The dead and bloody corpse begins to walk towards me, this creature pretending to be my mom is smiling at me, licking her dirty rotten lips in anticipation of something more. “Jesus Christ” I exclaim. “What is going on here? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!?!” My mother, this thing, smiles at me, she opens her mouth and a monster comes out of her stomach, a beast from the dead lands of empathica. It’s skin is red, almost crimson, it has a crown on its head and it looks hungry. It wants to eat, it wants to eat me, the nigger in the mirror, the man behind the glass. I run for it, and the monster follows after…