If you hold up the mirror,
Make it your face so I can see me.
My eyes beg at the sight, itching with curiosity
While the flesh beneath festers.

It feels I have all the time
To find how and why this face
Is mine.

Finger tips to touch the cold surface,
But never quite reach the angles,
To explore, to discover, to know the face too.

When I hold the mirror up for
You to see your face:
Do you see mine or your own?
Is it the face of tragedy,
Bleeding tears of mockery?
Is it your own identity,
You project on me?
Or is it two mirrors,
Seeing each other?

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