Twins

My eyes feel darker as I look at her,

The self of me in the mirror.

Here she stands, tipping her head forward and down as if to look up at me like she's sizing me up. She doesn't smile, she doesn't speak. We both know our voices to be deeper than average. No less feminine and dainty than if we wanted, but that is not why we are here today.

For as much as she is me, I am her, because I know she is asking me the question I cannot tell her yes to.

Almost like we're about to trade places, I could imagine myself beating on the mirror from the other side to hear to reason. To not paint the room in red, and that the splatter of it would be deeper the more vibrant the red. A color we could admire and pretend to taste until it turned maroon nearly, then brown, and crumble away like the dust we wish upon those who slightest us.

For where our teeth glitter prettily, I know in her mind, she could see the world burn, and she'd freely admit to it. Because in her, the wrong is only right when you're caught somewhere along where more hands can become a stop.

A force in which our torrential power might no longer commit to sinning in the way men in war drop caltrops.

And she might smile for something so evil, so sinister. In the way that it irks me because I know she could wrap her hands around another neck as if it were her own and squeeze. Squeeze tight like the way she saw the marks upon her own predecessor, and watch the color of someone's face turn from pale to red and purple.

And my stomach might clench, because somewhere in me, we might be the same. In the thrill of it. In the kill of it, and that apathetic part of her is just as much a part of me as it is her very personality. She is a demon in my image, and we are twins. One in the same. The only difference is she's behind the mirror, but I am not all the same. I am not behind the mirror, smiling in silence with soundless words beckoning her closer in like she does me. Wishing to rid the world of evil, a match for match in the hands of a blind woman who tips scales in favor of balancing all else out.

You cannot balance out life with lack there of, but she'd ask for it. She'd ask for her one opportunity to shine, to be that very thing that gets to dance and sing. And so I shudder, shudder away from her, to imagine she'd ever be free, because if she didn't let that old bag's wind fall out of her sails, she'd be sitting in prison instead on this day.

Thank God we are not one in the same in that we act upon our wishes. She may have hers. Her wants, but I do not act on wishes and whims. I wait for evil to long since die, to die alone, and abandoned where it belongs. But she wishes for blood and flesh, in a way that cannot be undone.

We are not one in the same. Only looking so. In a mirror, where her dead eyes go.

Mine are full of life and this is where we are not the same. This is where we parted ways, a decade long ago. But I know she's waiting, waiting for me to give up the reigns and give her one last final fight. But if anything, if I can give all my might... We will not feast on any blood, not then and never on this new nights.