Mirrors
I was fifteen years old when I died
And did not die.
The shrouds are gone from the mirrors,
The end of the mourning marked, strangely,
By the loss of my mother and brother.
I have not seen my face for months.
I can not be sure —
(in any way besides the innate (misplaced) trust
that we have in the honesty of mirrors)
— that the face on the other side is mine.
There is a gauntness to my cheeks I do not recognize.
There is a shifting of shadows not triggered by the light.
My fingers reach out towards the glass and touch
Warm hands and ragged nails.
I was fifteen years old when I died
And did not die.
My visions skews sideways
and goes black.
This was a rework of an older poem that I wrote (inspired very heavily by Welcome to Night Vale) that I repurposed and rewrote for the “split” prompt for OctPoWriMo.
