The mirror waits where it always waits,
polite, patient, ready for blame.
My eyes trace faults like constellations—
every scar a star I drew myself.
I catalog the crooked lines
and shelve my worth upon a shelf.
The mirror waits where it always waits,
polite, patient, ready for blame.
My eyes trace faults like constellations—
every scar a star I drew myself.
I catalog the crooked lines
and shelve my worth upon a shelf.
