Eyes to the left
Eyes to the right
Looking to read you with all their might
Looking deep under your skin
Studying to work out where you begin

Eyes to the left
Eyes to the right
Learning your inner secrets and keeping them tight
Learning how you think; with the slightest nod, wink, and blink.

Eyes to the left
Eyes to the right
Looking deep through to your soul
Reflecting the feelings of your inner portal

Eyes to the left
Eyes to the right
Never letting you out of their sight
With you to the very end, keeping your secrets like your very best friend

You walk into the mirror box and it’s like walking
into the imagery of one of your own poems.
You’re caught in the mirror maze, searching for yourself
in the mirrors at angles but all you can see is yourself,
back to back in the mirror tunnel, yourself again and again
until you can’t recognise her anymore.
Is it me? you ask and it is, but you’re still not convinced.
Is it just me in the mirror box, legs up to my chest, eyes closed
because I am horrible, you quote, but you’re standing up.
You’re standing up in too many of your own poems, in this permanence
of your fleeting reflection which proves you are real but has become
so metaphorical that being in the mirror box makes you question
the possibility of yourself as this person who is being reflected.
But this isn’t a poem, I tell myself. I don’t live in the second person.
She tries to cast aside the metaphors for a moment to try on the clothes
but you’re stuck in the mirror box, in the nightmares of my own poetry.