I shudder and I sit.
A quake and I stand.
A tumble and I fall,
then you reach out a shadowed hand.
A reach and I fall,
an opening and I shatter.
The mirror is then splattered with illusions.
Why do I believe every time it is okay,
because you’ve always been there?
Or because you’ve always lied.
Why do I believe this is normal?
Is it because they believe me when we look at them with our deceiving eyes?
Why is this wrong?
Is it because I might die?
But every time I turn there is another door,
and nothing on the other side.
So we walk,
with your forceful arm around me,
“addicting as you are, we will never be one.”
I stumble, I fall,
and yet another hand tries to support me.