What the Mirror Told Me

The girl on the floor was bleeding.
I had watched it all. From the day it began. I remember when she was young and pure. Before the day she came home and stared at me, the poison blossoming in her eyes. She had stayed strong, I had been there through it all. Walls of glass slowly shattering. But today was different.
Her wrist was split open like a wedge of cheese. A pale shred of flesh lay on the bloodstained carpet. She wouldn't scream, cry out for help, shed a sinngle tear. I watched her calmly try to halt the violent flood, as the pain behind the glass poured out from her veins in streams. I watched her vision blur as the poison lost control. I watched her smothered panic as she clutched her arm to her chest. And finally, I watched her lay in quiet submission, as she was claimed by the sweet slumber she had so thirsted for.
This wasn't what she wanted. She didn't mean for it to end this way. No, she wouldn't let this be the end. There was her poison. Pooled on the floor. Soaked through her clothes, through her skin, through her soul. Her body lay still, but this was not surrender.
When she wakes up, she will sit and stare at me, into me, beyond me, and through herself. It is by me that she will wipe away her bright red tears. The tears she cannot bear to shed from her eyes. They conceal too much. Too much that she can not see. Because whenever she stares at me, she is only looking. The poison won't reach her eyes. Hissing, boiling, crawling inside.
And I am reflected in her eyes. I am whatever she wants me to be. I am mercy. I am power. I am justice. And in the darkness, behind closed doors, I am the poison she cannot escape.
What am I to you? I see you, but you only look at me. I see your poison too. I am everything you want to look at. Just look.
I'm the mirror on your wall.