in your hold are shards of glass
pathetically glued together by the thoughts that roam your head
and you couldn’t move
afraid
that they might break
and pierce your palms instead
but then you see
that your hands are also glass
hid away by a pseudo shine
and in front of you, a mirror
with cracks appearing from the side line
your heart skips a beat
when you see not even a reflection of yourself
then suddenly, a smash
as it drops to the ground
at the apprehension of
that reflection isn’t missing
but it ceases to exist
because the truth is
that you are there standing
looking right at yourself
without realising