THE GLASS THAT HUNTS

The mirror wakes before you.
Its grin spreads like a cut.

You stand here,
bleeding morning into the sink,
thinking you own this hour.
You don’t.

The glass has been watching all night,
its mouth fogging,
its teeth clicking in the dark.

You rise not for victory;
but to keep from drowning in your own stillness.
The dawn does not bless you;
it peels you.

Your scars gleam like cheap saints’ icons.
You polish them because they are all you have.
The mirror knows.
It licks them clean with light.

You crave collapse.
The wreck.
The bone-snap mercy of starting over.
You love the burning more than the rising.

The glass leans closer.
Its voice crawls through your ears like smoke:

"Bleed proper.
Give me something I can drink.
Or keep playing tame
and I will drink you dry anyway."

And then it waits,
smiling,
knowing you’ll come back tomorrow
because it is hungry,
and you are delicious.

F.S.F.