All mirrors are liars. False liquid, false eyes rimmed with soot and grime of lost sleep. That's not your hair messed up and refusing to cooperate with your fingers scraping through thousands of tangled follicles. It's not you with the cracked face and hot breath, two-day shadow and lips like the desert opening into heavy breaths in your heavy chest. It's not you who is trapped in the gap between the reflection and the world of the living. Not you stuck in Narcissus' dark pool, not you who's the drooping, sodden flower with petals brushing the surface. Plunge thine hair under, take a breath, push it out. Take another, push it out. Again, again. It's your mantra, charm and ward. Hold it closer than hate holds love.

To make a poem as violent as a mirage 

30 x 30 cm 

Glass and cyan pigment ink


Using Format