though not a man in the mirror, per se more a man behind it with a penchant for schaudenfreude smile yellow with sadism the rot, the cavity grinning from behind the glass like some ******* Cheshire Cat to my Tired Insecure Alice.
no two ways about it: he is there and i am here symmetrical but for the man's barbed tongue perforating mirror and licking at the corners of my brain.
he sings an ode to a spindly leg torso of crush'd cardboard box predisposition for loquacity (not a city you should visit) and badly drawn countenance scrawled across coffee-stained parchment.
so convincing is this man behind the mirror with his pejoratives administered with utmost precision surgically removed volition saying things like: "The City That Never Sleeps would cower at the indelible image that is the hulking bags under your eyes."
i have nicknamed him "Conscience" in the hope of wrestling back control.
quiet down the persistent nagging dissenting voice that sounds suspiciously like mine own like i'm knocking at the door of delinquent neighbours