Echo

Illustrated by Ella Clayton.

My face in the mirror is an empty shape.

A circle collapsing into smaller circles.

My iris, a flat black pool. 

This reflection is not truth. 

It is a cool dark desperation that I see. A fragility. 

My wavering image ripples with quicksilver doubt.

The idea of myself quavers. I want to cradle it,

but it collapses with a stroke.

My oval outline, an echoing ripple of a touch long gone. 

Underneath the glass surface is the murkiness of a dream. 

Deep within, a violent agitation against 

life’s stagnancy.