I stood before the mirror long,
Where silence sings its clearest song.
A glass so still, yet sharp with cries,
It cuts me down with silver lies.
Who is this shape that mocks my gaze,
Wearing my face in borrowed haze?
Each blink betrays a stranger's dance,
A twisted frame in fragile trance.
The mirror holds a thousand me's,
None rooted deep, all swayed like trees.
Some smile with masks I used to wear,
Some cry with eyes I cannot bear.
I touch the glass—it touches back,
Cold truth against the warmth I lack.
Reflections crack with whispered blame,
Each shard still calls me by my name.
"Who are you now?" the silence hums,
A question sharp as war-torn drums.
I speak, but words dissolve like breath—
A voice that knows not life nor death.
My skin feels foreign, eyes untrue,
Wounds inked in shades I never knew.
I reach within but find no thread,
Just echoes of the things I fled.
Was I the child with hopeful dreams?
Or lies I learned in silent screams?
Was I the joy, the rage, the fear?
Or just a ghost that learned to steer?
I walk through days with borrowed steps,
A soul misplaced, a self inept.
Yet still I stand before that pane,
And search for self inside the pain.
If I could break this cage of light,
Would pieces help me see what's right?
Or would the fragments bleed me dry,
With every truth I dared deny?
Oh mirror, cruel and cold and wise,
You never blink, you never lie.
You show me all I hate to see
But never who I'm meant to be.
Still I return day after day,
To face what will not look away.
Until one dusk or dawn I find,
The face I lost, and left behind.
And in that glass, perhaps I'll see
A whispe of the realest me.