Made in
their image they look down on me with ruined, contemplative eyes as if I were a
tiny mirror, shattered and foggy. I reflect a perfect outline but no definite
figure. I feel their eyes on me and I hear them sighing in reflection. Like a
child I am made in their image, but lacking the inherent instinct to imitate, I
instead reflect a fragment of who they are. Often they stop and stare for
seconds, sometimes minutes, and try to find that fragment deep inside them. It
must feel like an itch on numb skin, as if the blind spots in our vision were
to appear. But they all leave with the same expression they began with, they move
on.
I am a
creation; made with purpose. What must they feel when they see me? A mirror
staring back at them. I wonder if they see the green and brown on my skin and
think of life and rust. Do they see my hollow chest, my empty shoulders, and think
of their own hearts beating inside them? I wonder if for a second they hear
themselves breathe and listen to the flow of their veins; the rhythm inside
them. Perhaps they’d feel hollow as well – detached; a floating head looking down
at an empty body, a subtle disquiet building up at the bottom of their spine, making
knots in their throats and clenching their bowels.
I am a
creation; made with purpose. I am hollow, sculpted with jade porcelain.
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