The Command

The text came, a cold click,

confirming the time, the sick

feeling in my throat. My jaw

clenched up, a silent law.

Then I'm there, in the stiff chair,

light hot, a glare.

The mirror on its stick,

cold steel about to flick.

And the voice, gentle but keen,

cutting through the sterile scene.

My mouth a cave, unwilling,

but the word comes, filling

all the air: "Open."

And I do, broken.