Introspection

The rope around my neck was my reflection, Like a noose tied by ghostly hands, Cast back at me by each shard of the mirror. Shattering the glass hadn't hidden anything, Nor had it freed the mnemonic slaves within. Instead, countless eyes peered back at me, Stained with their own shades of recollection. Eyes that wept in their lament and blazed in their scorn, Dulled in their contrition and hollowed out in their hopelessness, Narrowed in judgement and withheld their pardon. These eyes were my own, And suspended there before them I wondered, Why it was that they hated me. It never occurred to me, As I swayed there in their company, That I hated them, too.

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