I watch you walk into the dimly lit room, with your dark, sullen face, which is lined with creases and grey shades from nights of no sleep. Your hair is a mess; when was the last time you fixed it? Oh yes, last night; the same night you forced yourself to smile for an entire evening, saying sweet nothings into the air, prodding yourself to act happily, giving people the responses they want, which is never really the truth. And you gave them that satisfaction of a lie, being a reluctant hypocrite because you know if you say what they want to say, you'll get through the night faster.

And then, you come home to me, rip off your pretty mask, and stare at that glass that separates you and I. You try to smile; but your cheeks are sore from pretending. You play with your hair, and for a moment, you think yourself pretty...and then, you cry.

I look on as you look away, and I think to myself:

You are pathetic.

I am pathetic.

Oh, what are you doing now? Ah, going into the closet I see...looking for that one thing that you swore you would never touch again. I knew you would break that promise. The temptation is too great, isn't it? You want to feel loved again, whole again. And in your clouded state of emotions, I can barely peek out of my window to your world. This is getting old. Let me out, damn it! You promised me, maybe not directly, but you still promised me. I knew you would break your promise. But then again, of course I knew...after all, I am you.

I am the embodiment of your soul, of your deepest thoughts and dreams; I am everything you could be, everything you want to be...but I am also everything you don't want to be. I am a reflection of you. I am you. And every time you pass me in the halls, and look at me through that thin, yet impenetrable veil, you are looking not only at your face in a mirror, but at every single part of your soul, from the lightest paths to the darkest, most frightening corners.

And I watch you tonight, as you rip out clothes from their places, throw miscellaneous objects into the air, as you look and look and LOOK for that damned thing. Oh, there it is. See, it's right there, next to the paper doll collection from when you were 9. Remember those days? Remember when the biggest worry you had was whether your friends would like you or not?

...On second thought, nevermind. After all, your experience with other people stinks like shit, doesn't it? Well, if there's one thing you may have learned (whether it be gift or curse) is that people are liars. They always alwaysalways leave. Am I right or am I right?

...Hmph. You never listen to me...to that little voice in the back of your head. Always too caught up in the moment, aren't you? Ah, you finally found it. If you had listened to me, you would have found it sooner, you know. Oh. Oh God. Please don't tell me you're crying again. You're pathetic, going through that damned box, looking at pictures, reminiscing times that were and that could have been, but never will be.

Come on, face it, he's gone. After all those wonderful things he told you, after all those beautiful times you shared, and after promising you that he would love you and stay with you forever, he's gone. Men are like that. People are like that. They promise you they would die for you, and then back away when they get a splinter.

Or a broken arm, but that's not the point.

But like I said, people are liars. You should know that by now. Everyone leaves. They promise you they'll stay with you forever, but then when the rough times come, they leave you there to rot. When you show your more flawed personality, they leave. Because you aren't perfect. Because you aren't who they want you to be.

I am you. I am your reflection. I am made of what you were, what you are, and what you will be. I have seen, and felt, your agony and pain each time you need to put on a mask, to pretend, to paint a cheap smile on your face. He made you truly happy, I know. He was teaching you to love who you truly were. But I suppose, only I and his own reflection knows that. You don't know that. He doesn't know that. A shame.

And why did he leave? I suppose it was a complex assortment of reasons...but as I make my way through the maze of your mind, and push down barriers, and go to my resting place, I see the core. A burning flame of lies. That is why he left. Because you needed to lie. Not to him of course. Never to him. But to everyone else. Because you know, and I know that if you wiped away that fake grin, and took away the pretty mask, and revealed who you really were, you would be shunned by the people you love. Oh, I know it sounds childish and juvenile, but then again, we both know that you would have simply walked away with little to no hurt if the shunning simply consisted of your "friends" simply calling you "bitch" or "slut" or any of those words. You would have just walked off to a new group of friends, people who you knew would love you for being who you were.

No, somehow if they said you were "sinning" and "deviating from the Path", or telling you to break up with the only person who you KNEW cared about you because "it's ungodly" would have hurt you more than petty insults. The pain of isolation because you were becoming a "bad influence" or because you were "straying from God". The reoccurring fear that maybe the headmaster would find out and give you a long lecture on why you needed to let this beautiful person go. The constant rejection and painful attempts at rekindling friendships still haunts your mind.

You know these things would happen, because they already did. Therefore, you lied, said he was gone, and was able to breathe. For a moment.

Now you drown in your sorrow, for you have lost the one true thing in your life, and are now in a blinding mist of hypocrisy, anguish, and lies. They burn your eyes and they pierce your soul so very painfully. I should know; I am your soul.

And now, look at yourself; wallowing away in your little corner, clutching dear memories, wishing and begging and pleading with God that He could bring them back again. That you can be happy again. Maybe He will give your love back to you...maybe He sees the way you smile and experience small bouts of happiness with each remembrance playing in your mind.

I wonder if you will ever know who I am...this image in your glass, which walks when you walk, smiles when you smile, cries when you cry, and screams when you scream. You people on the other side...you deny our existence. You deny what we really are, explaining us away as as projections of light from small, tiny particles. But deep in your hearts, in the most obscure parts of your minds, you know. You know that we are not only a reflection of your physical form, but of you as an entity. We are you. We are your souls, given form, watching our conscious selves fumble through life, trying to avoid the inevitable, trying to repress things that we know of all too well.

For I am you, my physical twin. I am you without inhibition, and without repression. I am the freedom you could have, if you would only see me. But I see you. I see you too well. I see you clutching that precious box in your arms, photos and love letters spilling out like a fountain. You reach into the dark container, your shaking hands searching for something, your bloodshot eyes flickering back and forth intently. I would certainly be curious, had I not known what you were looking for.

A glimmer of silver catches our eyes. We stare at it, in love, and in remembrance. We remember when he gave it to you, and told you that he would love you forever, until death separated you two forever. You clench at the chain, biting your lip as you try to repress the oncoming flow of tears. I feel the pain of teeth breaking skin, and I taste blood in my mouth. My blood. Your blood. Our blood. It was a simple necklace, but it meant so much to you. You stare and stare and stare at it until you cannot fight the pain any longer.


I am sad. You almost lost your chance to bloom, and to reawaken into who you truly are. I surround your sleeping form; in the glass, in the metal, in the mirrors, in the shadows. I follow you as they take you to a hospital. They are afraid that you will never awaken, but I know that you will not die, because I will not allow you to. You may think you want to die, but there is so much to live for. You will someday be me. Only me. No one else. Maybe...not all people are liars. I suppose your mother and father are honest. I see their expressions, how they worry and fret and cry over your body. They love you. But though I love them dearly, you and I both know that their love is not all we need. You need to be me. You need to be free.

There is something on my chin. It's on your chin too...it's wet and hot and tastes a bit salty. Oh...you're crying. I am crying. We are crying.

And we hope and dream and wish for the day that you can take away that horrid, pretty mask and reveal me, your beautifully ugly soul.