He stood, staring at the mirror
while it stared at him.
Without moving, he grabbed his coffee mug
and in a robotic fashion took a sip.
His mind was leaving
and who knows where it was going.
Remembering why he was there in the first place,
he started cleaning the blood-crusted crevice
on the bridge of his nose like the crispy crust of a pie.
He just stared at the crimson stiffness coagulating on his bridge.
And, still staring into the other dimension of that mirror
into a space that humans still believe is just a reflection,
he grabbed a razor.
Only moving his arms, he started shaving,
cutting the hairs like a lumberjack cutting down thousands of trees.
So he cut, and he cut, and he cut,
letting his hands move robotically
as if he was brain dead,
until he bled a drop.
And in that instant he felt lost,
felt violated,
as to who was making decisions for his actions.
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