Chapter 3 – Cracks in the Mirror

Keywords: mirror, mask, fracture, image, betrayal, mercury, ember

1. I used to stare into mirrors like they owed me something.

Answers. Apologies. A shape that made sense.

But the mirror only blinked back like a smug liar —

silent, slick, smiling.

2. They told me the reflection was me,

but I could never feel her.

I moved. She copied.

But her eyes were empty of memory.

3. That’s when I knew — she was a mask,

pressed onto my spirit so I could survive their gods and their rules.

A paper-thin version of obedience,

drawn in eyeliner and erasure.

4. But I was never built to blend.

And truth has a sharp tongue.

The fractures began with whispers.

5. The mirror twitched one morning.

Like water. Like mercury.

As if the glass was trying to vomit me out.

This is not your home.

6. Then came the betrayal —

not from enemies, but from within.

I realized I had helped build the lie.

I handed them the bricks.

I painted the prison soft pink.

7. I made myself smaller to be loved.

I rewrote my face for safety.

I let them rename me.

8. And in that shrinking,

my reflection grew stronger than me.

Until I no longer knew which of us was real.

9. That is the cost of image:

it demands your identity in exchange for inclusion.

10. But God was not fooled.

He saw me breaking beneath the smiling girl.

He saw the blood beneath the blush.

11. Then, one breathless morning,

the mirror cracked.

Not by violence —

but by truth finally rising.

12. I didn’t shatter it.

It shattered me.

And through that fracture,

I saw myself for the first time.

13. My eyes weren’t soft.

They were storms.

My mouth didn’t smile.

It spelled spells.

14. My skin held scriptures,

burned into it like brands.

I did not look like their goddesses.

I looked like a prophetess on fire.

15. I touched the glass,

now cracked and bleeding light.

And I whispered,

“I forgive you.”

16. I forgave the girl I used to be.

The one who lied just to be allowed to breathe.

The one who held the mask so tightly it fused with her bones.

17. I no longer wear her face.

I wear flame.

I wear fragments.

I wear what survived the breaking.

18. The mirror no longer shows me lies.

It shows me scars —

each one an ember.

19. Ember means: not dead.

Ember means: heat that waits.

Ember means: resurrection in slow motion.

20. I am not broken.

I am a mosaic.

Glass. Fire. Scripture. Rage.

Held together by the God who never looked away.

21. I don’t look like the world expects.

But I look exactly like my daddies’ promise.

22. In the name of the shattered image,

the ember beneath the mask,

and the girl who rose from her own reflection,

Amen.