does breaking mirrors
really alter my features?
looking glass-cripple
The mirror fractures,
seven years of superstition
scattering across the tiles.
Does the face fracture too?
Or only the certainty that
one surface could hold it whole?
Each shard insists on
a different me:
one with a crooked grin,
one with eyes too wide,
one already fading at the edges.
I gather them like evidence,
a jury of splinters
deliberating my likeness.
The question lingers—
is the wound in the glass
or in the gaze?
Looking glass‑cripple,
I learn to walk with
reflections that limp beside me,
each step a reminder
that identity is less a portrait
than a mosaic— sharp, uneven,
yet still catching the light.
.
.