I stood too long at the glass last night,
and the mirror blinked before I did–twice.
It wasn’t a trick of the fluorescent haze,
wasn’t the meds or the sleep-deprived days.
It blinked, and I froze, and it smiled with my teeth,
then mouthed something slow I couldn’t quite read.
I leaned in closer, breath fogging the glass,
and for one full second, it wore my face from the past.
The me from before, the me who could laugh,
the me who didn’t count tiles or split in half.
It waved at me gently, then put its hand down,
and stared with a softness that made me drown.
The mirror keeps blinking first,
like it knows something worse.
It shows me a version I used to be,
then swallows the light when I try to see.
I told the nurse and she checked the frame,
said mirrors don’t blink, said I’m playing a game.
But when she turned her back, it winked at her too–
and her pen hit the floor, though she said it just blew.
Now I cover the glass with a towel at night,
but I still feel it watching beneath the white.
And sometimes at dawn, the towel’s on the floor,
and the mirror’s fogged up with words I can’t ignore.