But Seriously,

If I don't stop dreaming about these mirrors, I might just
Become what they tell me I'll be.
Confused, then obsessed, by mental reflections
Relentlessly gazing at sad hypotheticals,
Become as I see myself,
Washed out and faded,
Dried up and brittle,
Then stepping out into the rain
To be crushed and laughed at by my former and later selves.
As if I knew I had this coming all along.

Or maybe I would turn it into decency.
Start again, anew, albeit weaker.
Drenched and dripping dirty water until I'm clean.

Or maybe if I just weren't having
Dreams of eerie framed facsimiles of me in different times and places
Then, perhaps, I'd get some sleep, and wake up here tomorrow,
Good as new.
And smile at reflections
Without wondering
Where that creepy smile came from.

The End

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