The Prismatic Self

I meet myself at the edge of mirror glass— its surface holds me like a verdict; renders me in symmetry I do not trust. Do I offer brilliance, or only repetition? Each submission a blade, each stanza a wound— I split myself into offerings, waiting for the weight of judgment. The axe does not ask, only answers. It falls, sharp with certainty—yes or no, seen or lost. They say to write without needing the prize. They say to shape words as though no eyes watch. But I know the truth, I know the weight of silence when applause does not come. When the page returns unmarked, unchosen, does my voice scatter? Does it find refuge in silence? Or does it slip between the cracks of forgotten names, an utterance untethered from the throat that birthed it? To be seen— more than light touching skin, more than voices in empty halls— to be taken in, held within the breath of another’s knowing. Yet, when we depart, one half vanishes. The other remains, staring into the instrument that divides, where the downward thrust of the unforgiving axe cannot be halted, where self regards itself and dares— one more time—to begin again. But the mirror does not forgive—it only reflects, only repeats. It does not carry memory, only expectation. Not the artist, only the artifact. I exist between—between creation and reception, between silence and shouts, between the glass and the ghost it holds. And in the aching hush of mirrormourn, where reflection weighs heavier than any word unspoken, I linger, knowing even my image will not remain. Footnote: mirrormourn Definition: (noun) The quiet sorrow felt when one's reflection—whether in a mirror or in the eyes of others—does not fully capture the depth of their being. A mourning of what is seen and what remains unseen.