Always in the corner, her reflection waits to be brought forward, anxious for discovery. She wants to show herself in red, but manages barely a peer on the fringe of an old mirror. She waits for you to see her face, the one you rejected, repelled by real, living people. But now she wants the whole mirror, acknowledged in one intentional look.
Shadow yearns to know the white birth of daylight, exhausted from the camouflage game, the mime of many names, who’s led many lives, rejected in each one, shamed or made a caricature of. She stays tucked tight into a corner, eyeing the world, looking for herself in the unbearable parts of others; she´s been spotted running along dim corridors, passing swiftly by the windows of their eyes; she tries to speak into the sound of their utterances, “It’s me, I’m here!”
Shadow wants a bit of power, maybe just a small switch to fool around with in the gloom of the attic, something to assure her she still exists. If she could only merge back, reconnect the dots of her past presences, regain dignity in the humbleness of real human love, for one day not explain herself to the dark, hear her own voice in open air. if rage could find its freedom, crack her open without killing her. Meanwhile, she hides, tucked in the corner, a marred blot on a fading mirror; and she hopes still, as you refuse, block and interrupt the tempest behind glass.
