Her

"Our hands are light blue and gentle. Our eyes hold terrible confessions." 

-Anne Sexton 

How naive to think glass shattering is someone breaking in, 

and not due to the screams of someone- something?- begging to be let out. 

Freckles of starlight dot the beginnings of a journal entry I left near her bedside. The Night is quiet, but I am not. 

I am childhood innocence and well wishes embodied, 

moving about but never on. 

The mirror hands her my fangs, and her hair tangles itself into horns, 

linen curtains lament the winds that seem to try to push me over but I won’t fall I won’t- 

I wake with a start. Intake a breath sharper than any blade she threatens me with. 

I realize it was in my head ... 

and then my mirror hands me fangs, and my hair tangles itself into horns 

and I see a silent sky. 

“This is all too familiar,” I think. 

Then the windowpane cracks.