The Mirror is Me

I am in the mirror, and the mirror is me.

The longer I stare, the more I see her eyes, not mine.

They shimmer a little too bright, like candlelight trapped under water.

She tilts her head when I do, but there’s a pause: a heartbeat too long, too knowing.

At night, when the house goes quiet, I hear her moving.

Not from the hall. Not from my room.

From inside the glass.

Soft scraping, like nails, against the silvered surface.

She whispers my name, slow and drawn out,

as if tasting it, practicing it.

Last night, she smiled when I didn’t.

Her hand pressed to the glass. This time it was warm.

A shiver ran through me, or maybe through her.

Then the world rippled, like breath on still water.

Now she stands where I once stood, blinking in the darkened room.

And I am here, behind the glass,

watching her walk away in my skin.

By E. M. Page