The mirror before me does not lie,
no matter how much I beg it to.
Soft spoken words once given to my appearance have now only faded into shrill and distorted knells in my ears,
screaming things the devil could never utter,
even in a pure fit of rage.

My eyes see myself,
yet my mind can only stare at a horrid, warped creature,
turning whatever dared to reflect such a ghastly image like itself to stone.

Not all scars are seen,
but the mirror plucks them all out into view,
even from the darkest corners of my mind.
It watches.
No pity.
No remorse.
Just a quiet surface of glass which exists only to howl truths long buried within myself,
the kind of noise that echoes in the soul, leaving no space for peace to even think to enter.

Then it shatters.
The sheer weight of my existence making even something as inanimate as a mirror break down at the sight of the mess I call my person.
The tiny fragments look up at me with pure disgust,
a thousand images of myself encircled around me.

The mirror never spoke a word.
It never needed to.
The voice I heard was only my own,
yelling from the depths of my reflection,
weaving a tapestry of shame only I could create.
It did not judge,
nor distort,
nor condemn.
It only represented me thoughts I had cried at myself in silence for years.