How do you see me?

Do you see through me—

into my shattered soul, splintered like glass?

Like I do, every moment in the mirror.

I see the evil inside me,

clawing, crawling, desperate to escape.

Fingertips ghosting along the glass,

a reflection waiting to shatter.

A reflection of myself,

but not the me I wish to be.

You wonder why I avoid the water,

why I turn from my own image.

Because within them, they smile—

the part of me with no heart.

How do you see me?

I wonder if the layers of fabric

draped over my body

can smother this hatred,

or if it seeps through like a stain.

When I speak, do you hear my words—

the ones I shape, smooth, and control—

or the echoes of my reflection’s screams?

Do they slip through, tangled in my breath,

twisting my voice into something not my own?

Tell me, do you listen to me—

or to the thing inside the glass,

waiting to be heard?

I fear them—

That their darkness will bleed into my light,

that their hatred will stain the kindness in my soul.

Because I know, deep down, I am gentle.

I carry warmth in my hands,

dreams in my mind,

and a heart that wants to heal, not harm.

But what if they take that from me?

What if their voice drowns out mine,

Turning all I cherish into something I no longer know?

I can’t escape them—

They chase me like the hands of a clock,

circling endlessly, never stopping,

stealing my time, my thoughts, my identity,

until I am nothing but the echoes they leave behind.

You ask me what I fear.

I say: a mirror.

But the truth is—it's myself.