When I was five,

things went by fast

like the cursory glances I took

at the buildings and houses outside the window of an expeditious vehicle

And candles were left burning

in and out of the dark

When I was eleven,

things sped up a little more

and I was no longer looking at the world outside my window

but at the small droplets of water impatiently rolling down the sleek glass

And mirrors were objects that I held in my hand,
and stood in front of that contained another world – another me

Now that I’m marked with time

and the depth of the ocean is imprinted right across my heart,

my window is archaic and irrelevant, consumed in dust and moist

For my eyes do not see through them anymore

I am standing outside of it

And the candles are blown out

even in the dark confines of my bathroom

Because the mirrors are not another world, not another me

but a reminder of the battles I failed to overcome,

a reflection of a body that I must look away from,

a question that painfully burned itself into my mind