I placed the mirror firmly
within my soul,
used its reflection to perceive
of others.

When I saw myself,
it broke.

Now its shards are swords,
and I am a Roman noble,
impaling myself on my despair.
But I do not die.
I merely bleed,
the plasma of my soul
all but lost in the depthless
cup of my stomach,
a puddle of tears that I could not cry
for myself.

I would be empty if I could,
but who could ever be truly voidful
with a soul composed solely of shards?