A Familiar Face

It came to me when I was 18. The thing.

It crawled in at the base of my neck, sharp and cold.

It pierced like a harpoon, breathing into me, into everything I was.

Scattered, malignant.

I had never encountered such ferocity,

such persistence.

It would make consecutive strikes. It was a parasite with a taste for life.

Amorphous, impermeable,

I became deflated steel.

Raising a hand against it, I would cry out, the pain tremendous.

When I did nothing, when I stalled, and fell into its hard arms, I slept.

Others came near, drawing a few beats from my guarded vacuity.

But then it would pull me close, telling me of their wants, their agonies. They were all ill formed beings, stupid, destructive.

I could be more, I could be different, it cooed.

In my stony dreaming, dominance directed my eyes, power and cruelty grappled on the curve of my lips.

I killed, It clapped.

It yelled in ecstasy, cheering what had become my name.

But as I took a bow, the sight of blood on my feet shook me awake.

Eyes open, the sound of my own voice sent tremors through me.

It was gone.

But it wasn’t.

One year later, I saw it again in its true form.

Its expression was flat, nonthreatening. Familiar.

It looked like everyone I had ever loved.

Like the mirror.

Now, whenever I see it, I extend a hand,

Never disrespecting its gaze by averting my eyes.