The black never lies.

Upon it lies no imperfection

to flaw the image it reflects.

So I look to the glass

And hope to catch a glimpse

Of something so unfamilliar.

But the image itself is flawed.

It is twisted and mangled

By years of hurt and abuse;

It has learned to lie.

So the image stares back at me,

Trying to see what it has become.

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