At midnight, the old spoon started whispering rusty words into the dark.
Once, there were walls that believed in straight lines.
They measured backs, wrists, cheekbones.
If you tilted your spine too early or too late,
you failed the shape they demanded.
A screen buzzed quietly,
offering replacements for reflection.
Not truth, but suggestion.
There, shapes bent themselves into praise.
A mouth tried to match those suggestions,
tightening each morning,
pulling at skin like laces on boots
tied by someone else’s hands.
Nothing screamed,
but something recoiled each time a passing glass
refused to tell the same lie twice.
No one knew the eyes were never used.
Just fingers, brushing edges of a face
learned by shape, not sight.
The spoon kept hanging,
crooked and wrong,
yet more honest than the polished panels
the world chose to call beautiful.
In the end,
it was not broken glass that caused harm—
but perfect glass
that never broke at all.
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