I don't like mirrors.
And it's not because I don't like who looks back at me.
I know her eyes, they're mine after all.
But those eyes aren't alive.
The light never catches them.
I know her smile, because I've felt the warmth of another on my lips.
But that smile isn't real.
I don't think it ever was.
I know her hands, because I've felt the weight of the mirror with them.
But those hands shake.
They always seem to.
I know her scars, because I've seen the blood.
But those wounds have faded now.
They don't bleed anymore.
And I know her heart, it aches.
It breaks a little more every day.
But still she'll look in the mirror and smile.
Because a mirror can't reflect the pain she feels.
It can only reflect what it sees.
That's why I don't like mirrors.
They're liars of the prettiest kind.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 10:36 AM UTC
I don't like mirrors.
And it's not because I don't like who looks back at me.
I know her eyes, they're mine after all.
But those eyes aren't alive.
The light never catches them.
I know her smile, because I've felt the warmth of another on my lips.
But that smile isn't real.
I don't think it ever was.
I know her hands, because I've felt the weight of the mirror with them.
But those hands shake.
They always seem to.
I know her scars, because I've seen the blood.
But those wounds have faded now.
They don't bleed anymore.
And I know her heart, it aches.
It breaks a little more every day.
But still she'll look in the mirror and smile.
Because a mirror can't reflect the pain she feels.
It can only reflect what it sees.
That's why I don't like mirrors.
They're liars of the prettiest kind.
I haven't written a poem in a while so any feedback is appreciated
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