Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall

There is a girl--everywhere I go, she watches.

From the still, glass wall that confines her, her brown eyes stare out, their dangerous depths glittering like moonlight on a razor. I know to stay away, out of her reach, even though her body can never break through.

But it’s her mind that scares me the most. I shut it out the best I can, drowning her taunts with loud music or the chatter of friends, too much laughter and late nights. Her whispers, though, are harder to scatter, seeping in through the cracks of my skull and dancing across my ears.

I dig my fingers into my scalp to pull--rip--at my hair. But that only lets them in deeper, their fingers curling around my brain and snaking down my spine. So instead, I lay on my back in my too-hot nest of sheets, eyes shut, until I can no longer take it. On some rare nights, when I’m at my bravest, I untangle my chains and drag my feet against the scuffed wooden floors. I pause at the door, sucking in deep breaths of oxygen to talk myself out of it, even though I can never break the bonds that pull me to her. I always take that next step, her eyes instantly finding mine as she materialises out of the shadows.

They burn right through me like flames through grass, the sharpest of blades splitting the thinnest of butterflies’ wings.

I can’t tear my gaze away--I never can. It’s always her who looks away first, but it’s not a sign of defeat but of dominance.

Even with closed lids, I know every line of her face and body from the scars to the way she balances on her toes and her back curves.

A shallow inhale, a wheezy exhale.

One and the same.

And yet, I will never be her.