No

No, not I, I see clearly through the rotten wedding veil, clogged by cake turning stale, framed by arachnid pageboys; I see cracks on pale pink lacquer, on the mannequin face below, eyes mad and staring, aglow, the sick dead holes of eyeless toys. No, not I, my dear, I see the madwoman in the attic, frozen in her rocking chair, cobwebs floating in her hair, gibbering to her inner void; I see the child she used to be, alone beneath opiate skies, pulling wings off butterflies, things of beauty she destroyed. No, sorry, no trace of me at all, no reflection cast of me, I am not real, don’t you see? but, of course, that doesn’t do; I watch the self-delusions form, your mechanisms justify, projecting blame on passers by, when all there really is, is you.