Categories > Original > Horror
You Don't Know Me
0 reviewsWhat do you see when you look at me? The outline of a shadow, a ghost? A mirror reflecting an empty room?
0TrainWreck
You don't know me.
Girl of shadows and glass, crystal that sparkles only when the light hits it the right way, bottle of fine wine. Young child, where is your courage? Dive in headfirst and explore the ocean floor instead of splashing in the shallow end.
Hand them over - let me fix your glasses so you can read the fine print lurking along the curve of the D. Open the book (someone, please, open the book!) and shove aside the big, bold letters that spell INVISIBLE.
A walking oxymoron, an old youth, on the brink of death and the edge of life, surviving but not living; the line I tread flickers beneath me and I struggle for footing, grasp for something, anything to hold onto.
Leaded fingers, breaths weighted, measured, filed, just another grain of sand in the hourglass. I see better than all of you without help, green-eyed for your blindness: You will never be me and I will never be you. I keep my curtains drawn against the sun until it sets and the moon rises, when I am drawn to the night like opposite ends of a magnet, brilliance and darkness, not quite foolish enough to believe that if I jumped, I would float to the stars.
The mirror is cracked - a million versions of me stare back, none of them truly my twin. Because, of course, she isn't there.
Ghosts don't have reflections.
Girl of shadows and glass, crystal that sparkles only when the light hits it the right way, bottle of fine wine. Young child, where is your courage? Dive in headfirst and explore the ocean floor instead of splashing in the shallow end.
Hand them over - let me fix your glasses so you can read the fine print lurking along the curve of the D. Open the book (someone, please, open the book!) and shove aside the big, bold letters that spell INVISIBLE.
A walking oxymoron, an old youth, on the brink of death and the edge of life, surviving but not living; the line I tread flickers beneath me and I struggle for footing, grasp for something, anything to hold onto.
Leaded fingers, breaths weighted, measured, filed, just another grain of sand in the hourglass. I see better than all of you without help, green-eyed for your blindness: You will never be me and I will never be you. I keep my curtains drawn against the sun until it sets and the moon rises, when I am drawn to the night like opposite ends of a magnet, brilliance and darkness, not quite foolish enough to believe that if I jumped, I would float to the stars.
The mirror is cracked - a million versions of me stare back, none of them truly my twin. Because, of course, she isn't there.
Ghosts don't have reflections.
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