The mirror knows

I stand before the silver glass, its silence hums like buried past. My face, a story left unread, my eyes, the weight of words unsaid. A stranger stares, so still, so stern, a ghost of chances left to burn. Regrets are carved upon my skin, the scars of all I should have been. I trace the outline of my doubt, the dreams I locked and left without. Each crack, a whisper in the night, reminding me I lost the fight. I should have climbed, I should have run, I should have reached a brighter sun. But here I stand, the same, the same, a player lost inside the game. The mirror knows, it does not lie, it holds the truth behind my eyes. And though I beg, and though I plead, it only shows what I concede. I touch the glass, my fingers shake, as if to change, as if to break. But no one moves, no shift, no sign, just me, alone, in borrowed time.