I interrogate the glass, where fractured specters dwell,
Each line upon my face a cryptic tale I dare not tell.
Guilt coils cold and silent in the marrow of my bone,
And shame, a burning fever in my flesh, insists I grieve alone.

My memories oxidize—corroded relics, sharp with rust—
Their edges cut the tongue of any self I’d dare to trust.
Desire drifts like ash, unmoored from fires I once had known,
And shadows gather where any certainty has been overthrown.

I pose the question—Who persists when vain illusions die?
The answer curdles, strangled by the silence that will not lie.
No savior stirs in this shattered frame, where solace turns to stone—
Just me, and the unblinking gaze I claim but never own,
And as I turn away, the watcher’s smile grows wide—
For even in retreat, I am the thing I cannot hide.