I see something in this speckled mirror,
They said my reflection ought to appear,
Though I see hands, hair and eyes that resemble mine,
I do not see myself inside.
There’s but a hollowed shell staring back at me, its movements stiff and cold,
The face, the body, the ears look like me,
Oh where, where is my soul?
Surely I have not become this thing, a half-dead porcelain doll,
But when I smile, that thing smiles,
When I stand still, it does nothing at all.
“It must be me.” There is no other explanation. Who else could it be? I’m sitting on the bathroom floor alone.
“It must be me.” But I don’t feel my lips move this time, instead I see hers taking my words, and I hear her voice instead of my own.
“What have you done to me?” This voice belongs to me but I feel it rather than hear it, the room remains silent until she speaks.
“What have you done to yourself?” Her voice is faraway, and yet it’s everywhere. It’s gentle, and it’s terrifying. I feel like she could carry me away.
“We are trapped on separate sides of shiny silver glass, and I wonder if I could climb through if you would become me, or if I would become you.” She says, as her shoe arrives safely on my side, followed by a leg, an arm, a shoulder.
A Rambler In Bloom 