Of The Familiar.

By F Lalthanliana ( t.f. )

There’s a mirror in the hall I do not look at,

for it holds not my reflection but something else,

something that waits in the space between breaths,

in the silence when the world forgets to turn.

The glass is warped,

a sickness spreads across its surface,

like the twisting of a grin just before it cracks,

like the hands of a clock that refuse to move,

holding time hostage

in the hour where all things end.

Sometimes, I hear it

a voice, faint and distant,

like the soft creak of an unseen door.

It drifts through the air,

its whispers brushing against my skin,

leaving a chill I can’t explain.

It tells me things I never wanted to hear,

answers to questions I didn’t ask

of shadows that shift when the lights go out,

of places where doors appear

that were never meant to exist.

I feel it now,

a tugging at the edge of my thoughts,

a weight I didn’t invite.

It’s in the way the shadows bend

as if to listen,

as if to reach out and swallow

the last bit of warmth left in the room.

There’s a stain spreading on the floor,

dark and wet,

though I don’t remember spilling anything.

It seeps, slow and patient,

like an old wound finally giving way,

like something beneath the surface

pressing upward for release.

I do not look in the mirror.

I do not ask what waits behind the glass.

But I hear it breathing,

the soft and steady rhythm

of something that knows my name

and has no reason to say it yet.

By F Lalthanliana ( t.f. )