Mary’s Room

Mirror, I am too grown for you.
I no longer speak the language of glass,
don’t know how to linger
like the particles of dust that you catch
in the slices of sun cutting through the window.

You have forgotten how to open me up,
how to navigate the wilderness
that grows between my ribs.
You have forgotten my youth,
the chisel of my thighs,
the bulge of my neck
and the glow of my skin.

Now you are a broken seashell,
a sharp and hollow carcass
who imitates the ocean.
I pity you, foolish ornament,
tricked into reality with a coating of silver.

I am too grown for you,
too privy to the madness of your backwards truth.
I will show you now,
why you are unable to love the ones who return
and unable to mourn the ones who do not.

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