Everyday it sees me in uncombed hair and blank eyes.
"You should be grateful," I tell it slowly, tasting each word carefully, playing each word ever so slowly in my mind, my lips opening and my tongue clicking nervously.
Did it hear me?
I hate to think that it just stands there in a clear, liquid face and a rigid, solid body.
There must be something behind it.
I pray that there is something behind it, something behind my reflection.
A world maybe.
Or an ocean.
If its lifeline relies on a face it catches every morning, then it must be very full by now, maybe even barely able to hold itself with its fullness.
Maybe it will blow into pieces in front of me.
I would like to see what each piece looks like.
Would it hold my eyes?
a strand of hair?
Would it hold my heart?
Or my brain?
Or maybe when it shatters, it liquefies - a slow, silver flood of droplets of eyes, nose, lips, teeth, fingers, nails, veins...
Would ecah shattered piece or each silver drop tell a story?
I wonder if every time I stare at it, it absorbs my silence, or the air that comes out of me that paints white clouds on its face.
"You should be grateful;" I say it because I believe it might be happy to welcome me every morning - at least a soul visits it.
The mirror seems to have its own stories though.
It stares back at me and tells me the same thing - "You should be grateful."
But I cannot answer it.