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.
The eyes that meet mine
are not mine alone—
they are the eyes of every version of me
that ever was,
or could have been.

The abyss does not threaten.
It invites.
It whispers:
“Step through”.
The cracks in the glass
are not flaws
but doors.
The shadows are not traps
but maps.
The silence is not empty
but full of songs you’ve never sung,
of roads you’ve never walked,
of lives you’ve never lived.

I press my palm to the cold surface,
and for a moment, I feel it—
the tremor of another heartbeat,
the pulse of a world
where I am braver,
kinder,
wilder.

But the glass does not break.
The abyss does not swallow.
It holds me,
not as a prisoner,
but as a promise.

And when I turn away,
it does not let go.
It lingers—
a fingerprint on my soul,
a scar on the sky,
a hymn I can’t unlearn