The Exact Line

A phrase, a cadence, sharp and quick,

a habit that I learned to pick.

My own mouth moved, the words came out,

a shutting down, beyond a doubt.

His voice, his tone, so cold and grim,

a chilling echo, sung by him.

I saw my face, a sudden twist,

reflected in the steel, unkissed.

The toaster’s gleam, a metal eye,

showed me the ghost I hoped would die.

And there I stood, a mirror's dread,

the very thing I'd always fled.