Tonight, the concrete pavement smells of static
— —— — ——
like the air before a confession
only lacking bravery
I follow my own reflection
across lacquered storefronts
an ashen-gold figure
still trying to shine through
In the window of a bookstore
between a vape store and a pawn shop
the books lie sun-faded and damp
stacked on the walls
like forgotten posters on red brick
My reflection cuts through the glass
a face half lit
pulled thin by late night glare
fluorescent confessions
disappearing like black smoke
Past the butcher’s
hooks hang like question marks
My face ghosts from the sight of cleavers
cleaned
sharpened
lined up like prized possessions
What a strange kind of mercy
to slice through the parts of me
that stayed waiting
Neon halos flicker
over puddles swollen with sky tears
I step into one
and for a moment
I look holy
not healed
but noticed
By the city
by the night
by the honest echo of a self
too long unspoken
I thought I was looking for love
but turns out
I was just hoping
to see my self
and not flinch
Maybe it was never about being whole
just traceable
A face I recognise
in the reflection of a butcher’s knife
A name shelved
between two damp poetry books
Just me—
just me brave enough
to step out of my own reflection—
unskinned
unread
finally mine.