Sincerely, Jennifer x

I am not yet shattered,

but my reflection is splintering,

soon to scatter.

I watch my face in the mirror,

tracing the frantic pattern of freckles,

certain that I am the only one to see the concurrent child.

I am a window pane,

with delusions of life as a mirror.

There is a name written across me,

but my eyes are blurry and uncooperative,

so I just mumble along with the sounds of the rain outside,

and I wait.

I talk about myself all the time.

I’m bored of hearing about myself.

I’m bored of hearing my own voice,

but I can’t stop,

or I will cease to exist.

My life is long December days,

spent staring at the calendar,

waiting for my Father to return.

I have two Fathers,

and no sense of self.

There is one corpse, and one cowboy,

one, still, silent and wounding,

one, soft, sweet and withheld.

Not withholding.

No.

Withheld.

Captured by the fabric of reality,

crawling and clawing his way back from the abyss,

while I am left with a cold hand on my shoulder,

rain streaks and rain drops across my face,

and many questions.

The sky is filled with balloons and beautiful music,

but I can’t trust it.

I’ve seen sunny days, and I know that they are furious, if you give them enough time.

The doors will slam.

The Matron will remember that she is just a girl.

The visiting doctors will remember that this is all so embarrassing.

The corpse will remember that he is dead.

The cowboy will come, but he will be too late.

The Matron feeds me with tears in her eyes and straps on my wrists.

I do not recall being dangerous,

but I do not divulge this.

I don’t know where I am in time,

but it has always, and will always feel the same,

so I swallow aeroplanes and small crumbs of what the Matriarch can spare,

and then we stare at each other,

unsure of what to say as she passes me her badge and retires to her chamber.

I often wonder what people will remember of me,

when I am gone.

I often wonder what people remember of me now.

My second wind has said a long goodbye by the time the cowboy arrives,

on a tired looking horse that searches high and low for the next steps.

I am not of his blood,

nor his woman’s.

He looks at me, in a way that he perhaps shouldn’t,

but I shrug,

knowing that my blood is still young and delicious,

melting into his arms and feeling his hands journey to a myriad of appropriate and inappropriate places.

He will have to do,

and so will I,

because I am locked away,

surveying my splintering,

shattering soul in the mirror.

There is no time left.

There was never time to begin with.

He tells me that I am his mirror,

and I make eyes at my own eyes,

wondering if I could ever be more than a window.