Complex
The mirror traps me
where I stare.
She’s a siren,
it’s a calling on the wind
from the air vents in the ceiling
and I shiver,
but it’s a nice cold.
And here in the quiet
I am delicate,
beautiful,
here in my room,
I am alone.
I think I have a complex.
I check my reflection
in every window we walk by.
I say I don’t know why,
but it’s because
I can hear her there,
always,
singing,
all the time,
the siren in the mirror,
the awful need to exist just right.
This — vanity on paper,
proves her true,
proves her tragic.
I wish I never met her.
I could tear out my eyes,
but I think I would still see her
in the sound
of her somber song.
I think I have a complex.
The mirror is my home.
My face in the glass,
is the only thing I’ll ever know
for certain, or for good.
When I’m with her,
that’s the only time
the shape of me
looks right.
It’s not her fault,
it’s the men
who trapped her there,
the siren in the mirror,
and her funeral march.
