When I stare into the mirror,
I see the abyss—
not as a void,
but as a womb.
It hums, low and warm,
a lullaby for the lost,
a cradle for the broken.
The glass is not a wall
but a threshold.
......
When I stare into the mirror,
I see the abyss—
not as a void,
but as a womb.
It hums, low and warm,
a lullaby for the lost,
a cradle for the broken.
The glass is not a wall
but a threshold.
......