The mirror is cracked, I can't see myself,
My reflection is broken.
The smooth glass, punctured, tells the story of my face,
The remnants of me, just a token,
Of how I once was, whole and cleverly pieced together,
Strong and incomparable.
Yet I'm shattered in the pane I see before me,
Crushed, beyond repairable.

My twisted twin, she can't be me,
This looking glass is overrated,
I'd pull it down to cease my discomfort,
If the edge was not so serrated.
Her eyes, dreamless and hollow, bore into my core,
Stirring my very existence,
To writhe in disquiet beneath my skin,
With a dead, unrelenting persistence.

How I wish this was not a window of souls,
Mine own is the colour of blood.
But my pity flows wine-like for the body in this casement,
Yet it's turgid and viscous as mud.

So I remain in this spot, reflected in the pane,
Staring at who I've become.
The darkness in me is drawn to the pieces of this revelation,
For I'll never know the worst I have done.