She keeps a mirror under her bed,
wrapped in a sheet where the silver bled.
Too many faces, none of them hers,
too many voices that land like slurs.
She stares at the cracks, counts them like days,
each one a reason her smile decays.
The left side laughs, the right side cries,
and somewhere inside, another self dies.
She whispers names that don’t belong,
one for each place she pretended strong.
They shimmer, distort, all twisted and thin,
reflections of girls she couldn’t keep in.
Broken mirror, tell me true,
is any part of this really you?
Or just the pieces no one sees,
trapped in glass and memories?
She kissed her hands, made prayers in dust,
built an altar from rust and mistrust.
Her mother called her a porcelain child–
now she’s jagged and sweetly reviled.
They all said she’d shine when she grew,
but glass only cuts when it’s snapped in two.
Now she hums to her fractured face,
and keeps her truth in a shadowed place.
She sleeps with glass beneath her skin,
a thousand versions locked within.
And when she smiles, it’s razor-thin–
the mirror knows where she’s been.