Its darkness sucked in the light, for the mirror’s edge knew delight. It reflected life without a care, disembodied with a flair for the debonair—it sat, it watched, it waited, counting time, while we hated. Collections of images, moments echoing in time, we wove them, blessed them, claimed them as mine. But all the while, we gave in to its rituals, swore an oath upon its visuals, wishing for hope, disobeying mothers, succumbing to tendencies in the arms of others. It spoke, it whined, its window dined, withered plaything, haggard kind. I wilted while it bloomed into a rose, my decaying visage, and the door closed…