It came with the house—old, gold-framed, tall, Hung crooked in the narrow hall. Dust lay thick and glass was gray, But something kept me looking each day. At first, it mimicked just like glass should, My own reflection, cloaked and good. But sometimes, late—at 2 or 3- It showed a face that wasn’t me. Its smile was mine, but slightly wide, Its hands too still, eyes open wide. It blinked once when I did not, And stepped away while I just… watched. I turned to leave, felt cold rush through, Like something left as I passed through. I cleaned the frame, tried not to stare- It laughed one night when no one was there. I told my friends, “Just creaking floors,” They didn’t come by anymore. Mom said the mirror’s “been here long,” Her voice felt off. Her memory wrong. Now days feel slow, and nights come fast, The house has changed. Or maybe passed. I caught my “self” outside last week- It smiled at me. And did not speak. Tonight I think I saw it blink Before I did, and watched me sink. I write this now in case I fail- The one inside might soon prevail. If you find this, take a knife. Smash the glass. Or end my life. Don't let it through. Don't let it win. The mirror’s not what traps me in.