Your face remains unchanged - impassive.
We seem to be communicating telepathically.
That shouldn’t come as a surprise. It’s always been that way. You do so much to yourself, yet I remain unchanged.
You cock your head. I cock mine too.
You’re the one who feels broken. You’re the one who hurls the insults. You’re the one who can’t stand the sight of me.
For a moment, I think you’re going to turn away, perhaps for the last time ever, only see glimpses of me.
Then, before I can react, your throw your fist, and I break into a million pieces.
There now, who’s broken?
You say, with a grin I can no longer reflect.
It may be my pieces.
But it’s still your blood on my broken mirror.