does breaking mirrors
really alter my features?
looking glass-cripple

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.

.

.