I am scared of the mirror.
It hung in my bedroom,
And boomingly it loomed
and laughed at me.

It didn't show me imperfections.
It never showed a reflection at all.
Instead it showed a fiction.

The fiction was perfect.
It was colored, and detailed,
And knew long words,
And had deep thoughts.

The mirror laughed at it.
I asked why, I won't cry, I said.
But why do you care, it asked,
and why would you stare.

The fiction stared back.
It didn't care back.
This wasn't fair, I bared
My teeth and growled
At it, just so it fears me.

I wonder if it sees me at all.
There was just the mirror.
And the laughter. The fiction
Was perfect, and quite dead.