Your closet is made of one-way mirrors.
There is barely any room to breathe
But you have been there so long
That the claustrophobia has almost entirely waned.
It’s cold.
Your breath is clear in the crisp air,
Fogging up the glass walls,
Hiding your reflection.
It’s better that way, you think,
Failing at convincing yourself
That the blurry reflection is not yours.
Your closet is made of one-way mirrors
And on the outside is a crowd of spectators
That watch closely.
They examine your every movement,
Recording your responses to change in stimuli,
More aware of your reality
Than you are.
Your closet is made of one-way mirrors
And one-way mirrors alone.
You do not know how you got there,
Nor do you know who you were before that point.
All you have is the small space
And your breath that fogs up the glass.
There is no door of escape,
And you do not think you want one.
For outside waits a crowd of spectators
That knew your reality before you did
And a world colder than the one on the inside.
Your closet is made of one-way mirrors,
As fragile as your sense of self.
There is no door of escape
But a single accidental move
Forms cracks on the glass.
Your closet is made of one-way mirrors
And soon, it shatters,
Its shards leaving deep cuts
In your skin.

About the Writer

Retrograde is from Lagos, Nigeria.