When I blink, that ever mimicking illusion blinks back.

Or, maybe it doesn’t. Not like we could ever see. It reflects every little movement. For that alone, of course we must trust it’s honest. So that face I scratch, scratch, scratch at- tug, cover, pull, scratch- is indeed me. That hair, brown that curls up at the bottom. It is me. Green eyes, freckles, dimples, and every scar from every scratch and itch. It is me.

But, how can it be? How can I have a mirror in my brain that reflects such an entirely different image. How is this one mounted on a wall more accurate. How am I that.

So clearly, so very clear (unlike this foggy mirror, soon to be covered in blood), that can not be me. So very clearly then, there is something behind it. A puppet! A man holding strings. He makes sure this puppet controls every movement to mimic my own- so I fall for the illusion. So many others had fallen, so I see how I could have!

I was scratching again.

-no. No I wasn’t. Just that figure in the mirror. Was scratching. That figure knew its flesh wasn’t its own, so it knew guilt and had feelings. So it scratched, not me.

The puppet must have feelings! For it had guilt, it knew why I had to do what came next. It knew that it was guilty for lies! For hiding behind the mirror! For lying to us all.

Crash, slam, glass, shatter. Shatter! Shatter! Shatter! Now here was where it became unclear- blood and cracks and fingerprints. The puppet was persistent, never leaving station. But finally, it was clear- for it wasn’t clear anymore! The image of the puppet faded behind splatters shatters splinters of a reflection once shown.

If you squinted, an image still appeared. Of one- haggard and heavy breathing. Scratches covered by shiny reflective splinters. But indeed it felt like the creature behind the mirror had been sufficiently put in its place. Dead- maybe not. But never should it lie.

A phrase I know in only one language (not english) always told me to trust the mirror. That it never lied. Clearly, (clear once again) that in itself was a lie. If you can't trust your eyes, then trust your mind. If not for that, what else is there.

What lies behind the mirror is a wall. What lies in front is mystery.

“Step right up folks; take the mirror test,” says the conman in the town square. “But be warned, this is a special mirror that looks into your soul. Everything you hide in there will be known.”

Everybody takes a step back, everybody a sinner it seems.

“Surely one person here is brave enough to face the mirror."

Everybody takes another step back, but me. Anchored by the power of suggestion, I stand still. To everyone else’s laughter and delight, I’m pulled in front of the mirror, trembling with fear of what I’ll see, and even worse, what others will. My resistance isn’t sufficient to save me from shame and embarrassment, and so my moment of truth arrives. I stare at the mirror and I see nothing. Nothing at all!

The conman announces, “This poor man has no soul!”

what lies behind the mirror

what makes you even ask

it's never what we long for

since we hide behind a mask

or is it masks that we don

ever more than one

a face for each occasion

lest we come undone

fall apart, implode, decay

frighten the world away

leaving us alone and fey

to all our fears now prey

Should we look behind the glass?

Do we really want to know?

Is ignorance truly bliss?

Shall we just enjoy the show?

I don't think there's a god somewhere out there to punish me for my sins. Honestly... A lot of the gods seem cool with a little violence. Otherwise, I don't know why a bit of the Christians and Muslims and Vikings and empire upon empire across history have taken it to heart at some point in time that murder makes the most sense and is holy and for their creator. Anyway. There's no one to punish me then, but me.

There might be a Satan-Lucifer-type bad guy, though. Honestly, maybe that's the god they're talking about. Maybe it's fun. Maybe the one above is also the one below. Why else would humanity be full of such duality?

Enough about my beliefs. That's not why I'm here, is it? You want to know why I was able to tell you where all those bodies were... That's the point of this. Isn't it?

I can't tell you where it started. I can't tell you if it was dream or reality. I just know it began with a hunger. And a red thing in the middle of the room that just looked enough like food to me to be worth the risk.

Can't say I wasn't warned. I dunno, blame the world for telling me as a fat person, I am therefore a vacuum cleaner for all the food in the world. Maybe that's why...

Nah. I was just hungry. It wasn't something that made sense to me but I suddenly felt hungrier than I ever had in my life. I could've consumed the world and still felt a gape where food needed to be. Do you know; the longest I've ever gone without food is probably a day? Sounds like chicken change to some but that was me, starving myself on purpose... For you, probably. For the world to see me as something good enough. Strange how it makes so little sense looking back.

I was warned. Something warned me. It gave this whole explanation. Every word is embedded into my brain even now... Do you believe in a higher power? I believe in dirty ones. The ones with mischief on the brain.

I should've been more horrified at what she did. What I did. What we did. I should have been disgusted, you know? Yet I kept eating that meat that I was beginning to realise wasn't cooked or from an animal at all and I wouldn't stop. I just didn't see the point, anymore. And when I cried... Was it from terror or relief? When I saw those memories in my head, when I felt the blade in my hand and heard their screams...

I can tell you genuinely that I liked it more than I should admit. Especially if I'm to convince you that it wasn't me, even if I don't fully believe that anymore. That's what I'm saying. Dirty, nasty, lower powers. The kind that don't give a shit about the right or the wrong, only the hunger. Only filling the hunger.

Every strike made me feel high as a kite. Every strike made me feel like even more of a coward and when hurting myself proved insufficient in curbing the hunger, the boredom, the quest for something else, something new... What else was I to do?

Looking back... There's not much more to say. You think it's me. I think it's me even though I know it isn't. I'd imagined hurting people before I ever did it. Would I do it again? No. Despite what you may think, I'm a sensitive coward, I feel ashamed of the shit I felt me doing in my head. But would I imagine it? It's like asking an addict who's decided to go sober whether they still think about it or not.

Days as early as this? When I've only just been caught? I fuckin' daydream about that shit. Sometimes I wonder if the bastard who did all this got my own sins. The things she did, I thought and the things I thought, she did. I call her ✨she✨ because I like the thought of a badass goddess doing the job. Way hotter than yet another boring white man. My lady has a halo of fire in the shape of an afro on her head like the burning bush some dead bible dude saw once.

I wonder if my own cowardice helped her see it in herself. I wonder if she wonders where the good times went. If she's as lost as me and wondering, as this news comes out, if it's really possible. Dead, maybe?

I wonder if the me that was me is gone. I should regret stuffing that heart into my mouth but what can I say? I was hungry as hell and in life, we accept the mess that feels the most comfortable, no matter how sickening it really is. I'd give you more details but you look almost terrified... It's a good look on you, I know I'm familiar with it. Go take a break. I won't make any more sense when you come back than I do right now.

I'm not here to make sense. I just wanna fuck around. I've got nothing to lose anymore. I even lost the fear but damn, what a cost. Hope halo-fire goddess-mama is doing okay with all that shit in the brain. Hope she, like me, is too paralysed by fear to start again and simply lays in bed to wait for dreams and red, sticky things to change her life.

I don't think there's a god somewhere out there to punish me for my sins. Honestly... A lot of the gods seem cool with a little violence. Otherwise, I don't know why a bit of the Christians and Muslims and Vikings and empire upon empire across history have taken it to heart at some point in time that murder makes the most sense and is holy and for their creator. Anyway. There's no one to punish me then, but me.

There might be a Satan-Lucifer-type bad guy, though. Honestly, maybe that's the god they're talking about. Maybe it's fun. Maybe the one above is also the one below. Why else would humanity be full of such duality?

Enough about my beliefs. That's not why I'm here, is it? You want to know why I was able to tell you where all those bodies were... That's the point of this. Isn't it?

I can't tell you where it started. I can't tell you if it was dream or reality. I just know it began with a hunger. And a red thing in the middle of the room that just looked enough like food to me to be worth the risk.

Can't say I wasn't warned. I dunno, blame the world for telling me as a fat person, I am therefore a vacuum cleaner for all the food in the world. Maybe that's why...

Nah. I was just hungry. It wasn't something that made sense to me but I suddenly felt hungrier than I ever had in my life. I could've consumed the world and still felt a gape where food needed to be. Do you know; the longest I've ever gone without food is probably a day? Sounds like chicken change to some but that was me, starving myself on purpose... For you, probably. For the world to see me as something good enough. Strange how it makes so little sense looking back.

I was warned. Something warned me. It gave this whole explanation. Every word is embedded into my brain even now... Do you believe in a higher power? I believe in dirty ones. The ones with mischief on the brain.

I should've been more horrified at what she did. What I did. What we did. I should have been disgusted, you know? Yet I kept eating that meat that I was beginning to realise wasn't cooked or from an animal at all and I wouldn't stop. I just didn't see the point, anymore. And when I cried... Was it from terror or relief? When I saw those memories in my head, when I felt the blade in my hand and heard their screams...

I can tell you genuinely that I liked it more than I should admit. Especially if I'm to convince you that it wasn't me, even if I don't fully believe that anymore. That's what I'm saying. Dirty, nasty, lower powers. The kind that don't give a shit about the right or the wrong, only the hunger. Only filling the hunger.

Every strike made me feel high as a kite. Every strike made me feel like even more of a coward and when hurting myself proved insufficient in curbing the hunger, the boredom, the quest for something else, something new... What else was I to do?

Looking back... There's not much more to say. You think it's me. I think it's me even though I know it isn't. I'd imagined hurting people before I ever did it. Would I do it again? No. Despite what you may think, I'm a sensitive coward, I feel ashamed of the shit I felt me doing in my head. But would I imagine it? It's like asking an addict who's decided to go sober whether they still think about it or not.

Days as early as this? When I've only just been caught? I fuckin' daydream about that shit. Sometimes I wonder if the bastard who did all this got my own sins. The things she did, I thought and the things I thought, she did. I call her ✨she✨ because I like the thought of a badass goddess doing the job. Way hotter than yet another boring white man. My lady has a halo of fire in the shape of an afro on her head like the burning bush some dead bible dude saw once.

I wonder if my own cowardice helped her see it in herself. I wonder if she wonders where the good times went. If she's as lost as me and wondering, as this news comes out, if it's really possible. Dead, maybe?

I wonder if the me that was me is gone. I should regret stuffing that heart into my mouth but what can I say? I was hungry as hell and in life, we accept the mess that feels the most comfortable, no matter how sickening it really is. I'd give you more details but you look almost terrified... It's a good look on you, I know I'm familiar with it. Go take a break. I won't make any more sense when you come back than I do right now.

I'm not here to make sense. I just wanna fuck around. I've got nothing to lose anymore. I even lost the fear but damn, what a cost. Hope halo-fire goddess-mama is doing okay with all that shit in the brain. Hope she, like me, is too paralysed by fear to start again and simply lays in bed to wait for dreams and red, sticky things to change her life.

Since she’s had my baby, Lord, how I’d love to see her again just once. The boys make dirty jokes about her and I don’t care, I’m telling you, I just don’t. ’Cause the day I rode up to her momma’s house and brought her to the church to make her my bride, when she was so skinny about the waist, I pictured her getting fat one day, and not so girly.

Not just fat, I seen her in my mind’s eye old, wrinkly and foul. In that purdy white dress her mammaw made, I tried to picture her foul. But even when she’s old like that, I seen her pretty blue eyes and her modest expression, and I knew as long as she had that soft expression, she would always be purdy to me. It’s the darnedest thing. Ain’t a woman who lived purdier than my girl, that’s for sure.

I met her in high school. She was almost 17 on our wedding day, two weeks before I shipped out. And soon enough she wrote me a letter telling me, she says, “Come home soon. I’m having your baby soon.” It scared the hell out of me, ’cause I’m a daddy now. But I just want to see my girl. I just want to know how she looks since being a momma. I know she looks different, I already know she won’t be the same. But I do think, I really do, I think, she’ll be even purdier.

Dead again: that's what I realized, that I'm dead — again!

How many lives must I live? I was the following in previous lives:

A butcher

A baker

A candlestick maker

A Tom

A Dick

A Harry

A woman

A man

A hermaphrodite

A saint

A sinner

A loser

A winner

A mother

A father

A son

A daughter

A fetus, but I don't know what I did after that.

I am currently living a previous life during my current lifetime: I am dead in this lifetime, but I am alive from a previous life. I am living life huge and familiar, but I am most assuredly confused.

I'm living several lives at once, each skewed by a few years.

I lived a future life in a previous life, and that has only firmed up my resolve to live vicariously through my other lives, of which one is right now. I think. Ask me later.

Shadows

Of leaves and flowers -

Can you hear them?

They bring

Echoes,

Melodies

That resonate

In cold

Isolated

Winter months.

*

Shadows

And images

Traipse through

The woods

To reveal

Memories of

Days spent

In the sun

Now just a reflection

In the ice.

*

Shadows

In the haunted,

Crystallized

Walls of home,

Warmed by

Memories of you.

Do you feel them

Occupy

The vacancy

In your heart?

*

Shadows

Of new birth

Seen in the

Sun-kissed snow.

You, along with

The ice,

Melt

To reveal

A new umbra -

Is it really you?

*

Echoes

Of shadows

In winter

Evolve, reflect

A penumbra,

An eclipse

To welcome

Newly born,

Diversity and

Life.

the odd slant

of winter’s light

cast telling

Rorschach shadows

shorter days spin

in a dysthymic cycle

and reveal

you just can’t win

What is devine? Of or like God. What is God? The creator of all things. To be a devine male/female is to be a creator. Indebted with all the power and creativity of the universe itself.

It is an aura of mystery. A tangible deity. A masterful mind. Beauty mystified. An artisan unparalleled.

It is the personification of power, of love and privilege. An enigma of supernatural force. An all encompassing sensation set to human form. It is you and I.