Mirror

You see me red.

Call it evil
and hate me for it
as if the body had invented it.

You take me to pieces.
It comes easy.
Something old in you
knows the way.

No mercy.
Only the work of unmaking.

You do not know me.

And still you return
to spit
and to strike.

Blind
to this:

I am not the thing you hate.

I am the glass
it is standing in.