Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

I stare into the looking-glass mirror, and I see an invisible man.

My flesh and blood heart beats within a ghostly shell of a human (if I can even be considered one anymore) as my soundless, broken-glass footsteps glide over my tarnished floor

I stumble slowly down the stepping-stone stairs and not one eyelid evaporates, not one marble head turns into my direction.

I'm not sure if I am alive or if my stone-cold body is lying behind me (But surely the dead don't feel this much pain)

I want to pinch myself – surely I'm dreaming

But no banshee shouts or fingernail screeches can wake me from my ungodly nightmare.

What must I do to be noticed?

Should I beat my fists (shout-claw-slice) on this never-ending wall, or will it collapse around my helpless frame?

Or is my heart's beat (th-thud th-thud) loud enough? Its too-loud, too-fast rhythm hammers the thoughts from my head, the feeling from my fingertips, the sound from my throat.

The dust around me refuses to stir into a whirlwind of tornado rainbow-beads and I wonder if it even notices me

But why should it? No one else does.

I'm frightened to look upon my porcelain hands (are they still there?) and when I do, they are soso small and fragile

So I shove them deeper into the cage of my hollow blue-jeans pocket (they might be all I have left)

And I march on, praying for a single malice-filled glance (am I not worthy of even this?)

Soon I cannot take the rhythmic pain, beating inside my hollow birdcage chest

And I turn around to test my transparent jail-cell philosophy.

So

I let my all-too-real feet pound the ground in cinderblock beats (thump thump) and when the evil eye turns to face me, empty shells of whiskey nights and drunken days

But when the mallet fist comes crashing down upon me (I am victorious) the metallic thrashes merely kiss my paper skin

And the beautiful red droplets are merely evidence of my existence

(I am here. I am real. I am being seen.)

So I don't struggle against the tree-stump arms restraining me (Or are they holding me together?)

I close my curtain eyelids and can almost (almost) believe I am locked in an iron hug.

But this becomes red-faced anger ("Why are you smiling, boy?") and I let my fantasy fade into a desperate glance, a default expression

And he floats back towards his hallowed haven as I struggle to stand up from my self-inflicted hug (I can't even try to hold myself together)

And stagger back towards my truthful mirror, where I stroke the red rose blossom blooming onto my cheek

I smile, for my proof is before me (I am not an apparition)

And I know, for now, that I am not a shadowy figure birthed of darkness and decay,

But a person,

Johnny Cade.

I always personally thought that Johnnycake's neglect was worse than his abuse. This poem-thing might be terrible, I don't know. I can take a flame, a review, whatever you feel like dishing out.