When Mirrors Blink

When Mirrors Blink

Some mornings, glass forgets my face and gives me someone new—

a version half a frame to the left, a shade the wrong-hued you.

The toothbrush pauses mid-air like it’s waiting on a cue.

And I just watch the mirror blink and ask, “Which one is true?”

*

The lights above the sink go soft, then flicker back to bright.

My jawline does a small escape, and my eyes misplace their light.

I tap the edge to test the world, to make sure the tile is real.

While silver ghosts rearrange bones according to their feel.

*

I’ve met the one who’s razor-thin with worry at the seams,

the one whose mouth looks built for war, not coffee, jokes, or dreams.

I’ve seen a stranger wear my scars with better, braver grace.

And once or twice, I’ve stared at glass and not found any face.

*

When mirrors blink, my history jerks—jump-cuts in bathroom tiles;

the kid I was, the wreck I’ve been, the one who still rewrites.

They crowd the frame like busy ghosts who never learned to leave.

Each asking if I’ll choose their script, each daring me to grieve.

*

But I have learned a different trick than smashing what I see:

I breathe until the blur sits down and makes some room for me.

I lift my chin like turning up a dimmer on a song.

And let the harsh fluorescent truth admit it might be wrong.

*

I talk out loud: “We’re still right here. We made it to this sink.

We’ve kept the heart a messy beat; we didn’t drop the link.”

The stranger in the silver softens, shoulders lose their brink—

two versions blinking back and forth until they start to sync.

*

The glass can glitch, the light can strobe, and the angle can misfit.

My job is not to match its mood but to stand despite it.

So if the mirror loses me or edits what I think,

I’ll stay and blink myself back for when the mirrors blink.