Who is she?

I brush the sweat off my face,

as I watch the action be repeated, 

in the mirror right in front of me.

She brushes a strand of hair away from her face as I do.

She braces the sink, with her arms, as I do.

I watch her like a hawk, 

as she stares right back at me.

Who is she?

I watch as tears start to build up in her eyes 

and feel the tears of my own drip down as hers do.

[Drip]

[Movements synchronized]

Who is she?

And all the moments, that just happened, 

swell up in my head and

I watch the girl in front of me,

as her body mimics my every move,

 without any flaws.

Who is she?

or rather... 

Who am I?

I don’t know 

and of course, if I don’t know…

She, of course, would not know

Or...would she?

And if she does, who is this girl?

I look back at the girl in the mirror.

Move, and she moves.

Twirl, and she twirls.

Cry, and she cries.

[Click]

            The girl is...            

                                my very own self. 

I laugh at my stupidity.

No wonder, she looks so familiar.

No wonder, she has no pulchritude at all, 

                                                         like I do.

No wonder.

No wonder, she is crying as I do.

For no one understands my pain, except her.

                                                                 No one.

…

And then, out of the corner of my eye,

the girl in the mirror

suddenly turns, straight at me,

—​​out of stance—​​

and hurls a dagger

at my fragile heart.