When the Mirror Cracked

The voice breaks—sharp, brittle—a line cut

into the fabric of my own making.

Correction, command, a hammer to glass.

I hear him in me, folded beneath my skin,

a cracked ceramic mug slipping from my grasp.

Frustration curls the corners of my mouth,

the same impatient tremor I swore I’d shed.

But the echo of his words, a stubborn scratch,

breaks through my resolve,

a sudden pivot, a falling into place

I never wanted to claim.

I am that voice now,

harsh and unyielding,

and the mirror cracks in my hand.