House of Cards.

My life is not a card game.
I don't play card tricks.
Only one person knew the insides of me so well,
like the back of his hand.
If he told me I had a game to play….no.
He knows I don't have a game to play.
I don't need games.
Not now.
Never did.
Never will.

And another soul who is a mirror of myself.
Whom I loved deeply. But who never knew.
And who never understood. It was a mutual thing, I suppose, in retrospect.
Years of bitterness. Yet, we both knew each other's deepest, darkest, vilest secrets.
Because of trust. Because mirrors don't lie.
What you don't expect, is for it to be used against you.
It is at the very least, vindictive.

It's funny.
You stand on the world's stage,
keeping so much of yourself to yourself,
afraid to get hurt again,
to allow yourself to get hurt again.
Instead, you pour yourself into someone else's heart.
Only one.
And what the world sees is your empty shell.
Your self drained out of your own essence.
Your essence in someone else's vial.
And if the world wants to judge that empty shell,
I guess they can go ahead.
Because.
Empty.
Shells.
Don't.
Play.
Games.

What hurts is that this carefully built House of Cards,
that took years to build.
This House of Cards,
Of dreams of Hearts, and visions of Diamonds,
Of Kings and Queens and Jacks and happily ever afters,

collapses.
Each carefully placed card, cascading down,
infront of your tear streamed eyes,
your empty shell, still drained, the glass vial that once held you,
shattered into shards of glass,
like a million pieces of tiny shiny ice.

And there you stand,
infront of your own House of Cards,
as the biggest Joker of them all.

Laughed.
Mocked.
Misunderstood.

And until they all realise,
I don't have any of that cladenstine card up my sleeve,
I guess,
they can think what they want to think,
until they ask.

To think, I always thought mirrors would need no explanation.
But I guess, even your own reflection is unsure of itself.
Or perhaps, I just thought wrong.
All along.

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