Mirrorism

TW: self-harm, violence, torture

I take a step towards the full body mirror,

I tear myself from being her,

and I lock her up in the glass tower,

starving her by the hour.

At night I try hard to polish her

in a charcoal loft of a punisher,

even an ingénue there could go mad,

and get lost in a red maze of plaid.

I claw on her throat,

but it still can’t tune to a song;

I am brutal, I don’t spare the inutile,

I use biscuit tin, to store her zigzag skin.

I grab my sharpest brush set,

and paint a thousand horizons of sunset,

sand blends in with the color of crimson,

waves drown out cries of the creamy sun.

She asks for mercy, speaks “this can’t be me”,

bringing me the memory of her brain back.

I grab the ax and crack her head open;

I scowl at her neurons and blood blanketing them;

I take the scissors,

dry-bloodied next to hair wrapped guns,

I cut some nerves off,

replace them with the yellow ones.

The needle nearly slips my metallic hands

and gets united with a golden thread,

I sew her head halves home to their lands,/

spend hours on picking every strand.

She grows her eyes back while I untie the ropes;

I stroke the new self softly as she hopes,

not to force the redness of her knuckle bone,

as I return to my eternal place on the glass throne.

She smiles at me then.

I smile at her.

She waves.

I wave.

Happy tears spill from her healed eyes.

Joyful tears wet my glued cheeks.

She ceases to breathe and starts to live.

And I promise to mirror her every belief.