The only clean thing in my house is my mirror.
The only clean thing. Long, undisturbed panels of slick reflection—me right in it. Centered. Perfect square edges— it soothed your soul to see all the lines stack up neatly into one corner. One neat, 90 degree corner. Perfect. A silvery shade of truth, propped up against my clean tile. On top of my clean sink. So clean, my sink. So pure, my mirror. Perfect. The purity and the cleanliness— perfect. The water of my mirror had never known any ripples, the air of my mirror neverneeded a filter— the water of my mirror and the air of my mirror and the earth of my mirror and the truth of my mirror— so clean, my mirror. So pure, my sink. Perfect. My eyes ran along the edges like ice down a hot pan. But still, I stood. Looking in the mirror. Perfect. Sinking into that mirror. Perfect. Becoming my reflection. I held up a hand— my mirror did it, it copied my hand— and I felt yellow fear creep into my mirror— the hand dropped and mine did too, my face twisted in horror and her face did too and I continued standing, perfect, counting the lashes of my eyebrows, perfect, and I continued standing, looking at the crack in the ceiling behind me— perfect. And I stood looking, and I saw in front of me and I saw in back of me and I just just kept kept sinking sinking lower and deeper lower and deeper and lower and deeper and i just just keep sinking— I was beneath the water of the mirror, I was with the mirrormaids and the corals and the algae— the silver fucking algae— kept trying to get in my mouth and then I, I, then then, then sinking, I then, then I, just, I, I, then I— I then, I, then, I looked out of the mirror. I looked out of the mirror and I gasped— I breathed. I took it in. I touched my mirror—
My mirror is quite firm, but feels quite cool. Perfect. My fingers bump up against it, but leave for fear of disrespect. My mirror is always cool. I close my eyes so I don’t offend. I stop looking. I only feel. The smoothness, the friction between the oil on my fingers and the perfection of the mirror— even blinded, I can feel the mirror’s frustration— don’t touch me it says only love me it cries. I keep touching. Perfect. The slickness and the coolness and the firmness— it feels like air embodied. It feels like how everything should feel— slick; and cold; and ancient and also, so very fucking new. Perfect. I extend my arm, feel the muscles yawn, I stand on my toes— just yearning for an end to that unending slickness, the mirror continues above me and I know the edge is sharp and all I want, perfect, and I need, the only thing that will show the mirror how much I love it, how much I can’t live without it, how much the mirror understands me, and loves me, and the unity, and whole everythingness of goddamn everything, can be proved, perfect, if I just— and then it happens. I reach the edge of that slickness, and the end to that beauty— it haunts me. I move my finger back and forth on the thin, rough edge— perfect— so different than the unending slickness— and I scrape it on that sharp edge. perfect. I slice it. Perfect. I cut it. Perfect. I break my skin and blood cries out— perfect— longing to be home. Yet my blood makes friends with the mirror, and I stand, no longer touching, no longer feeling, just looking at the blood that was inside slither down the mirror. Drip down. Drop down. Perfect. The mirror, I can tell, rolls its shoulders in enjoyment. The mirror loves to be slithered down. The mirror loves to be warmed— the mirror loves to be stained. The mirror loves, loves our connection. Yet my mirror echoes nothingness. Perfect. My mirror is endlessly vapid. My mirror is nothing— but also everything. I stand in my mirror and hear the echoes of silence crash around me. Perfect. My mirror is nothing my mirror is a void— and I, I write, tst tst, on, on the void— the silence of the mirror reminds me of myself. The remorseless honesty, the lack of any comfort or familiarity, the lack of life, and the reflection of falseness— I hear the silence fall upon my ears like cotton— perfect— like thick sheets of dough just wrapped around my head and all I can hear is the yeast of the mirror, rising— and falling— and rising— and falling— and it gets closer— perfect— and it covers my mouth—perfect— and its rising— and falling— and rising and falling and rising and falling and the dough gets thick and I get thin and my mirror— my silver fucking mirror with its long legs, and tinkling laugh, and jokes that you never really understand— the mirror is calling to me, perfect, quietly, perfect, whispering in my ear, perfect, licking my neck, perfect, my mirror is wrapping its arms around me— perfect— my mirror is churning in my ear and breathing— perfect— cold breath— perfect— breathing very slowly but always on the verge of speed— my mirror loves me, my mirror burns me, my mirror kills me and it crushes and it eats my dead body— my mirror fucks my dead soul— my mirror whooshes its cold breath on my neck and my mirror never has any spit in her mouth—perfect.