lights turned inward

I was taught to polish mirrors

that never showed me back—

a child bent into reflection,

a servant of glass.

Their voices were lanterns

turned inward, hoarding flame.

I learned to speak in refraction,

to wear masks that smiled

without teeth.

But silence, too, is a teacher.

From the hollow rooms I carried

a stubborn ember—

not theirs, not borrowed—

a light that refuses

to bow to glass.