Deceiving, aren’t we?

Her cold, sunken eyes flowed rivlets of thin tears

A vacant gaze masking a foreboding iciness as she glared at me

My fault, for making her cry

Each tremble from her lip emitting a soundless cry of desolate despair

Her hand occasionally reaching for me, but sinking to her sides at the realization that this dreary prison of glass was inescapable

Limbs trembling in agitation, like an insufferable withdrawal from the inevitable opium

But not opium, just an oppressively-low self esteem

My fault, for stripping her view of herself bare

Each day, we part

Each evening, we return to this ghastly prison, watching one another grapple with this sickening shroud of self hatred

I make her weep, and her thoughts become dull and dark

She faces me, forced to grapple with the weight of centuries upon her torn shoulders

I watch as her mind recedes into the shadowy, decayed chambers of her consciousness and crawls away from the reality around us

A malady I cannot heal, for her, for us

As evening is brushed away by the onset of nightfall, she lets out a melancholy cry into the gloom

And it is in this moment that I step away from the mirror, and I see her no more

Not until the next evening when we meet in front of that deceiving glass again.