The writings were in the mirror.

Too curious, I’m triggered.

But the messages are never clear.

Am I crazy?

Could they betray me?

My emotions are hazy.

Silent whispers roam the halls.

I heard my name being called.

I felt my feet being mauled.

Then a man in his forties,

spoke about his quarries.

Then I told him my worries.

A knock buckled my knees.

He said, “ Ignore thee.”

I couldn’t let it be.

It may just be me.

A part you don’t see.

You’re stuck, can’t flee.

And just like that, even the dead tell stories.

S. L. Cline