OUR MIRRORS

OUR MIRRORS

Our mirrors are not delicate.

They are knives,

coldly slicing through my joints.

They are gray

just like my dreams.

You see nothing in their eyes but tears.

On their faces,

our images sway

like bereaved brides.

That is why you see my heart tremble,

not from love

but from this darkness

that settles upon the chest of our mirrors

and in their stories.