What the Mirror Told Me

She came home today on the verge of tears. The poison has spread. But no...
'Tears are weak,' she hissed at me. She clawed her throat in agony. At least she sees it, knows its there. I almost wish I could do something... almost. She is trapped in me, her desires are mine. She still cannot see my existence.
So many pass me by. I have been since the beginning of time. Since the first humans looked at their marred images in ancient waters. I have fueled the ego and haunted the imagination.
Never so haunted as this one, however. She would come before me and gaze at herself for hours upon hours and not see a thing. No matter how she studied her own depths. I would be in her nightmares, in her daydreams, and in ethereal places in between. She was only alive when the lights were off and the doors were locked. When she would withdraw her relief from its hidden niche, when she would kneel in front of me and watch herself bleed, when she would choke back sobs in adamant refusal to face herself, face her blood, face her tears, the tears she would never - on any occasion - let fall.
She didn't go for her blade today. She curled up in bed and snuggled under the covers. Quiet sobs shook her figure, but I knew her eyes were dry.
'Tears are weak.'
Eventually she settled herself, as she always did, and the cracks in the glass began to slowly reappear. Soon enough, her noises faded into the monotone clicks of her cell phone. Searching for help in all the wrong places. No matter how hard she looked, she couldn't seem to understand that I was the only one that could help her help herself.