Wax Mirror.

It wasn’t glass.

That was the first betrayal.

You leaned in,

expecting reflection—

instead, a surface soft enough to take your shape

but never give it back.

You learned not to touch.

Or if you did,

to be gentle,

as with the body of someone

already dying.

In time,

your face appeared:

blurry, flickering,

as though lit by a candle too far away.

You tried to sharpen it—

spoke your name,

pinned your hair back,

stood still.

But still the wax

shifted.

Still it changed you.

Not a mirror,

then.

A recording device.

A liar.

A lover.

You asked it who you were.

It wept.

Then hardened.

Now it holds

the last version of you

you tried to love—

frozen mid-blink,

half-smiling,

about to speak.