Lying in a puddle of warm sunlight
That flowed across skin,
And pooled around shadow.

Saffron hair spilling over eyes and cheeks,
Fanning out in the sunshine pool,
Delicate as vacant spider thread.

Green eyes flecked with tear stains and
Secrets,
White lace bright against broken skin,
Marred with cuts of vermillion
And healed slate bruises.

Raindrops from summer-storms passed
Race each other down window panes,
As fractal rainbows shatter
In sunbeams,
Sending diamonds and rubies and sapphires
Dancing across parted lips
And dampened cheeks.

Fingers move,
Twitch into a fist;
Lifted to half-lidded gaze;
Examined.

Jagged scars stretch across knuckles
And fingertips,
Faded burn marks branching
Like twisted little vines across the
Back of a bruised hand and
Up a pale forearm,
Crosshatched patches of broken skin around
Delicate wrists.
The picture perfect
d i s a s t e r.

Peering in through windows,
One would say that she looked peaceful:
Like an angel even,
With all of that ivory lace and
Golden hair shining
Like a halo around her head.

The tiny droplets on the glass would distort
Her rose petal lips into
A contented smile,
And the spider web scars into nothing more than
Shadow playing tricks on the light.

In her puddle of sunlight, she could have been
Washed clean;
Immaculate;
Ethereal, even.

If only pools of sunlight could reach her heart.

Fist slams down into the ground-
t h u m p.
Hollow sounding.
Painful impact on would-be broken fingers.

Eyes open wide to stare
And contemplate
And loathe.

Head tilts to the left,
Golden threads spilling over cold eyes,
Clinging to tear-moistened cheeks.

Muscles twitch and flex under lily-pale skin.
Pulling upwards.
Sitting now.

Nausea comes in waves
That cut the surface of her complacency,
Crashing against jagged agony-woven shorelines.

Tear burned retinas focus on glass in front of her;
Her reflection-
Jeering like so many demons-
Peers back from under mussed up bangs.

A smile-
Wicked and mocking.

Fists clench, baring teeth.
Then- biting into soft bottom lip,
Metallic crimson dancing on her tongue.

Wounded lips part.
Tongue flicks out to lick at
The edges of agony.

The crimson smears-
Rolls down her throat,
Pools around ivory collar.

Sneering reflection moves to touch the scarlet stain-
Pallid, ashen fingers brushing over collarbone-
Smears it across the window pane.
Tongue flicks out to lick at now crimson fingertips.

Screams tear through the reticence,
Reaching, always-
Reaching the stars with her
Anger; anguish; agony; hatred.

Reflection traces injuries and
Soft faded scars against glass.
Almost transparent.

Not like looking in mirrors-
No, they were all broken anyways.
Already contaminated with echo images
Of sin-smeared lace and velvet.

A voice- static and rustling.
-What’s wrong?
Don’t like
Like what you see?
           What you see?-

Fists strike at the spectre,
Watching from a reflection.
Anguish burning against eyelids,
Squeezed tightly shut to wounded
Phantom-glass.
         Stop it!
                                Just stop it!
      Leave me alone!

This was the sound of her always,
Her forever.
It had been this way since she breathed her first sin-
Since she had lifted that first torch of regret to start-static ambitions-
Brushing vermillion branches across pallid cashmere skin,
And indigo-bruised shame to accompany the effervescent sting.

Memories are vacant of any reason to breathe,
Aside from the pain riddled puncture wounds behind her eyes.

If she could spread herself out like a soft-faded blanket across the sunshine,
She might find where she had once been clean and bright;
Without stain or flaw or injury.
When starlight was enough to warm her soul,
And the darkness was a foreign entity to be left undisturbed;
To be left to its secrets and shadow.

Now though, in her present obscurity,
Every hour slipping away is spent alone in opacity,
With nothing but crimson blades and rustling demon voices
To occupy the shadow-light.

This spectral transparency residing in the glass before her
Haunted her steps: her every movement.
It was always there, lurking behind mirrors and
Panes of glass.

She was so terribly frightened of the ghost-pale face she saw
Peering back at her from transparent words of looking glasses.

Not quite like Alice and her Wonderland.
No: there was no color here.
No white rabbit to follow,
No dream to wake from.

This was her forever-
Stretching out into mirror worlds and broken blades of moonlight.
She could not escape the spectre any more then she could
The shadow that trailed her feet.
But God, she wished that she could.

Fists continue to strike.
Refusal in every breath, every heartbeat-
Begging for reason in hazy oxygen.  

She would break every mirror, every reflective surface
Until the mirror shadow could follow her no more.
If she couldn’t see the shadow, then it wasn’t there at all.
It couldn’t be.

Spectral fists strike back;
Slamming into the space between her knuckles and the shadow glass,
Ferocity and insanity and desperation etched into her features.
Spider-thread hair dancing violently as she thrashed,
Eyes animalistic and wild.

She hated her reflection, hated this glass demon.

She paused to see the damage she had done,
Blood smears tarnishing immaculate transparency.

The spectre paused as well, chest heaving,
Glaring back at her.

She raised her fist to strike again, and the glass phantom did the same,
Eyes full of the same hatred coursing through her own veins
Like electricity, hot and fast.

Sudden realization strikes
As she moves to brush the glass with blood-smeared fingertips,
Shadow spirit moving in perfect unison.

This demon- this evil in her reflection…

Was it her?

Was this who she was?

Who she had become through repeated injury and transgression?


No: oh God, no no no.

It couldn’t be.





or could it?