The monitor has become
a mirror.
Like a shield,
it used to separate—
creating a comfortable distance.
The barbs from fingertips
would deflect—
and forget.
Yet, the face inside
is visible—
harder to ignore.
I can see you—
or, is that me?
My eyes wet from the strain.
That’s what I tell myself.
It’s stuck in my throat—
and even reaching for water I know won’t help—
I have to look away.
But I see it.
I see you, a floating haze of words
and pictures.
Seared in my vision.
The monitor has become
a mirror.
And I,
well, I am no better
than those I criticize.
JKolasch
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