What the Mirror Said When I Fed It Light

It smiled with all my teeth

and none of my mercy.

Said: You're not broken.

You're exactly as designed.

I wept.

It applauded.

Outside, the wind crucified the trees.

Inside, my thoughts wore stilettos

and stepped on each other.

I boiled time to vapour,

inhaled it,

coughed up futures

that looked like organs.

Every truth I touched

turned into velvet—

then bit me when I relaxed.

I kissed a knife

just to feel consistency.

Then silence leaned in

and whispered,

You were the god all along—

and you still begged.