Midnight in the Hall of Mirrors

There are scratches on the frame where black birds have flown,
damp in the hollow beneath your hand, and webs in your hair
where spiders’ eggs impel themselves towards birth.

In the split mirror, your reflection mumbles your name
backwards and there are letters written in your thick breath.
Your eyes are bitten dry of tears, their lids too tight to close.

It’s too late to listen to what your mother always told you,
admit your mistake and go back to bed, as spiders spread
across your scalp, and the beast demands his nightmares back.