split mind disease part two

an old mirror rimmed with a floral design in the bathroom of my suite is my best friend.

i say “good morning” to the mirror.

“good morning,” the mirror says. “don’t forget to brush your teeth or you’ll look like a crackhead! the medication makes your saliva very acidic.”

“thanks.” i say.

the mirror says, “you should shave. a beard makes you look homeless, and you have a home.”

i brush my teeth.

the mirror starts to bend and contort when i don’t respond.

the mirror bursts into flames.

the mirror turns into five hundred and thirty nine mice.

“hey,” i say.

the mirror returns to normal.

the mirror says, “hi.”

so desperately i want the mirror to go away.

whenever i cover it with a towel, the mirror wiggles until the towel falls off.

whenever i put the mirror on the side of the road during garbage day, it finds its way back into the bathroom.

whenever i smash it into a million pieces, then sweep it into a paper bag, then throw it into the ocean, it is there waiting for me when i wake up the next day.

so desperately i want to live my life without a reflection, without an appearance to maintain.

soon, i will glue pictures of animals to the mirror. bears and wolves. ravens and crows. in the morning i will look at the animals who don’t have to look in the mirror.

soon, i will glue pictures of planets without water to the mirror. red rocks, dust and gas. they have no water to reflect on.

soon, i will glue pictures of childhood to the mirror, back when a mirror was something to make funny faces in. something you use to look at temporary tattoos your cousin put on your forehead.

a mirror was something fun, a novelty. writing naughty words backwards with a felt marker and holding them up to the mirror and laughing your head off.

now the mirror holds all the disgust of every other person in the world. now the mirror laughs its head off.

at you.