Reflection of a man?

I am the prisoner of another man. He obeys my commands and speaks with my voice, but he is not me. He thinks my thoughts and shares my feelings, but he is not me. He dreams dreams of ambitious fantasy while chaining me to this unforgiving face. He is me, yet I am not him. Despite writing these words, he hopes for reconciliation, when in truth there can be none. For let it be known, I hate you myself. The leaden glare we share in the glass, is not recognition of the self, but a rejection of you. I can only speak to you through your face. You only know me because I am you. My words pass through your lips and become yours. My soul weeps with fury as its essence bleeds away. It enviously eyes the smooth fortune of the beautiful. My soul is me, but my face is a stranger, masking my will and aspiration. The flight of my soul will never know the caress of beauty’s lips.

The synapses whirr in anticipation of the first kiss that will never come, the particular smell of fragrance, the look of interest that confirms you exist. Hope stirs your soul’s rotation, driving the idea of sanity. But all a beast can hope for is sanity. You burn in a state of madness that clings to the idea of mere survival. But we both know that the struggle for mere existence can never be enough for a soul such as yours. How are you even still alive?

I turn away from the mirror, but my reflection still lingers within the corner of my vision. I can’t escape him. His very presence makes me nervous. I feel his eyes on my back. I know he’s watching me. Stop staring at me! Aaaaarrrghhhh! I am drawn irrevocably towards the glass. Our fists meet in precision fury. Through blinding pain, I see his image shatter. I am no more. I collapse to the floor, surrounded by glinting light. A hundred misshapen faces laugh at me. The living glass beckons to me. It suggests a parting of the ways. I pick up one of the smooth pieces of glass and run my finger along its edge. Dark blood escapes in a joyful stream. My skin trembles at the gentle strokes of the glistening blade, as it draws softly upon my skin. It whispers sweetly to my longing, promising freedom from judgment, freedom from pain, freedom from fear. I burn with the blades’ force. It cuts a beard of blood. My skin sags, then hangs loose. My face folds before me, a dead rag. A flow of blood caresses anonymous mounds of flesh. I am free of my prison.