Avoiding the mirror,
the ritual repeats:
she drapes it with linen every night
while the magpies sing.
She doesn’t want to see her broken
self. She shuns her body.
The same body
that once seduced the mirror,
back when nothing was broken.
But cruel time repeats,
the days add up and soon there is nothing to sing
about. Bodies fade like curtains; they fade like the night.
She hides away in bed at night;
fat layers of feathers stifle her body
so it can no longer sing.
She has failed to mirror
the love she gives back at herself. Self-loathing repeats
and amplifies until she feels broken.
Her soul, it is broken,
needs elevating on pillows. It throbs in the night
while the pulse in her veins repeats
the pain. Heat swells in her body,
her mind a cool mirror
that refuses to sing.
She remembers that once she used to sing:
her voice like a choirboy’s, not at all broken.
Peals of notes like a clean silver mirror,
like the Queen of The Night.
Full voice an expression of full body;
the soul, while speaking, always repeats.
The breath of her body, it always repeats.
Wide-bellow-lungs power her to sing,
to sound her live body.
But when she is broken
comes a terror like the night,
and her voice cannot act as mirror
to her soul, which repeats back instead how much she is broken.
To sing once again, she must surrender to the night
of her body and unveil the mirror.