The mirror shows a stranger wearing your face,
and when you blink, he blinks a second too late—
practicing, learning, getting better at being you.
Every compromise opens another mouth in your chest.
They whisper her name in your voice,
except it's not your voice anymore—
it's something that ate you to learn how to speak.
Some mornings your reflection's already awake
before you open your eyes,
standing there, waiting,
wearing the smile she prefers.
Late at night, you hear yourself in the other room—
your footsteps, your breathing, your laugh—
but you're in bed, paralyzed,
listening to something rehearse you while you sleep,
perfecting its devotion in your dreams,
learning to love her in the only place you thought was still yours.
You don't love her anymore.
But something does—
something patient and hollow
that grew in the spaces you abandoned,
and its love is perfect
because it has no self left to interfere.
The worst part?
She's happier now.
She kisses you and doesn't notice
you're not the one kissing back.