My mirror is a puddle of water that dries up every afternoon with the heat of the sun and collects again every morning after the midnight rain. If you scoop away the slime and push aside the mosquitoes, you can catch an uncanny vision of yourself. It's enchanted, this puddle of water. The images therein can speak. When I look into that stale water, I can hear myself talk. I can hear the words I've longed to say but couldn't. I hear the opinions and wishes I have saved up for years. I hear the scriptures and the lullabies and the incantations I have memorized. And it is a miracle to hear these things, for I cannot voice them myself.
You see, my image in that magical mirror has a mouth that smiles and opens and shouts, but my mouth was sewn shut years ago by a lover who wished me not to talk.
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