Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Chilling Shivers to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
There was a man inside my mirror who copied all I did,
He brushed his teeth, he combed his hair, and never once he hid.
But last night when I left the bathroom, and I switched the light to black,
I glimpsed him standing in the glass, still watching from the back.
He did not follow my movements, for his own were slow and strange,
As if he'd learned my patterns and was planning to arrange.
I covered up the mirror with a sheet of heavy grey,
But the fabric stirred and rippled as though something wished to play.
At dawn the sheet lay crumpled on the floor beside the door,
And my reflection wore a smile that it never wore before.
Now I brush my teeth in darkness, and I never meet his eyes,
For I fear the day he stops repeating me and starts to improvise.
Poet of Chilling Shivers · Hear it on the channel ↗
Commentary
A mirror is the one place where everyone meets a copy of themselves. This poem imagines that the copy has begun to learn its original, and is now planning something.
There is “a man inside my mirror who copied all I did,” brushing his teeth and combing his hair. But after the speaker switches off the light, the man is still “watching from the back,” and his movements are “slow and strange, as if he’d learned my patterns.”
The speaker covers the glass with “a sheet of heavy grey,” yet “the fabric stirred and rippled.” By dawn the sheet is on the floor and “my reflection wore a smile that it never wore before.” The speaker now brushes teeth “in darkness” and fears the day “he stops repeating me and starts to improvise.”