Do not shine light
upon the mirror at night.

Do not peer
into its murky depths,
for you will rouse the Thing
that placidly watches
from the other side.

The Thing that peers
so curiously,
glinting,
taunting,
wishing you would wake it.

Do not look
when it waves.
Do not speak
when it taps.

Do not rouse the Thing.
Do not touch
the glass.

Morning birds coax the raised words carved into my palm.
But carved is too gentle—
they were hacked,
the way an angry butcher cleaves a spoiled pig in place of his darling wife.

PRAISE HIM.

Praise who?

PRAISE HIM.

I will.
I do.
Every hour, on the hour:
PRAISE HIM.

Crimson blood drips,
yet it runs as slowly as it can,
for I still must
PRAISE HIM.

To resist is a sin.
To stop would be unforgivable.

So every hour, on the hour,
I must
PRAISE HIM.

A line, fractured clean—
I stare.

How
Can this mirror be so mean?

Shards of truth,
Slicing my skin,

Oh, what I’d do
To see me whole again

The painting is blurred
Shades of color
Speak to me
Call to me
“Look at me”

My eyes are open
Yet I can’t see
The shades of color
Directing me
Warning me
Protecting me

My eyes are open,
The painting is blurred

The rope runs
Over my wrists
Soft like
Silk
Heavy like
The sun

It’s tied me down
To a flimsy little post
That wouldn't hold
Even a feather

Of the bird
That so desperately
Tries and tries and tries
To fly away