As the steam from the cleansing shower begins to dissipate from the speckled glass,
I am greeted by a lost phantom known as a reflection.
He is unlike the latching shadow, who is unafraid to leave his home
No, this ghoul hides amidst the surface of calm lakes, and prowls on the screen after ignoring important texts. I am afraid of this “thing” because when I gaze into it’s form,
I do not see me at all, even though I know otherwise.
Instead, I am met with rotting wood disguised as skin,
A rib cage full of raven feathers,
And two eyes packed with so much midnight that even stars have trouble being seen.
There is a pit within the belly, where truths spill out before they are digested; and lying lips curl downward as if it preps to kiss the seductress creeping below the decaying earth
Hands shaped like aging arachnids, able to ensnare any soul that dares the web;
I feel my horror every time his heart beats, a fitting tune for the mental serial killing that becomes more menacing with each sequel.
No blood can be found but there are fresh wounds, disguised as tally marks upon the wrists, counting the number of times it will take for this silent killer to either succeed,
Or slumber until it is time to don the mask of death again.
The shade exists within the borders of a fragmented world, a realm where desires have a bit of bloodlust, canines extending beyond the enamel to taste the sorrow that courses through compact vessels.
I have realized that ghosts are only real if you believe in them
So when I when I look into the mirror now,
I see the phantom of my past, and even if it does not haunt me anymore,
I willingly accept this apparition that only wanted an original image to follow.