I met her when I cracked at fifteen,
smiling back through the bathroom screen.
She winked first, I laughed too loud,
Mom said I was “just thinking out loud.”
Now she lives behind that shiny veil,
lipstick thick and skin so pale.
She talks in riddles, sings in moans,
and answers calls from broken phones.
My roommate in the mirror grins so wide,
she tells me secrets that I try to hide.
I brush my hair, she mimics me–
but her fingers bleed from what I can’t see.
She writes messages in fog and steam,
tells me, “This is all a shared dream.”
But when I leave, she doesn’t rest–
she paces, scratches, beats her chest.
She mocks the doctors, rolls her eyes,
mouths along when the nurse lies.
She’s learned my laugh, perfected my cry,
and mouths “You’re next” when I walk by.
One night I stared too long, too still–
she blinked first, and I felt the chill.
Now I don’t know which one is real–
the girl outside, or the one who kneels.
If I vanish from your world one day,
check the glass–I might still stay.
She likes the quiet, she likes control–
and she’s saving a room inside your soul.