She used to live in a space, left of right & full of center, held together with outward facing mirrors, tied together by string. 

She aimed the mirrors outwards, on purpose – she didn’t want to look at her reflection, reflection of self; she couldn’t. I can't tell you why, she asked me not to say. "It's too embarrassing", she mumbled into her shoulder.

Looking back, I can easily see it now, her ability to hyper-focus on someone, fanning fake curiosity, in an effort to exploit their weakness because other people’s weakness gave her something to focus on. She used other people’s problems, so she didn't have to use hers. She didn't want anything to do with hers. She didn’t want to think of everything she'd done/let them do.

Once I asked her, "What's your superpower?" She looked down and said, "I have a tendency to disappear." 

Not wanting to hide this time, she decided to build her self a container with her bones, with her blood, with earth.

Her teeth, gritty with dirt, clenched. 

Her cheeks, gritty with soil dust, dry.

Dirty palms, dirty knees
she put her ear to the ground this time, instead,
and chose to listen

I want you to befriend your self
your shadow, my mirror. 
I see you but you need
to see yourself.