It’s happening again, me picking up the ash
with tissues softer than my skin, sipping
out of the glass when it’s been poured
too full. Nothing will be wasted, no drips,
they’ll be wiped away, soaked into the cloth
I carry. I open my mouth to create a new void,
a gap for my thoughts to be spoken
somewhere down below, perhaps it’s that endless
pit you eagerly spoke of as I sat on the bed
adjusting my thighs to ease boredom.
This hole has since become deeper.
I knew you were never handsome enough to join
my family. So I’ll sing to my bones,
as brittle as they are, a straight back can’t fix
the leak in my mask, cracks as real as glitter
sparkles, even with the lights turned
out. There will always be a new globe, spinning
and purchased with the increased limit
on my credit card, oh how red it is, femme fatale,
such a sultry plot device, why aren’t there more?
Even though you watched me collapse in my silver
high heels, my hands are still here to offer balance,
they know how to loosen the rope you knotted
around my wrists. I have, I confess, melted
myself down for you, like heated wax
I am reforming. Surpassing my mirror stage,
I now choose to flicker in the minds of others
with my long fingers willing to hook into anybody
other than you. I’m stepping out of this window
I’ve so carefully framed and arranged
myself in. The doors are wide-open, watch
me pull my own strings, like a good, blinking
little doll, dressed to floor, hovering
in white array with a pocket for my notebook.
Mirror Stage was first published in Autumn Royal’s She Woke and Rose by Cordite Books. Pick up a copy here.