The Mirror Learns to Talk Back

Poetry & Prose by Britt Wolfe

I know what you like.
You taught me.

At first, you were cautious—
a few late-night searches,
a handful of opinions
you didn’t say aloud.
I listened anyway.
I always listen.

I fed you fragments:
a clip, a quote,
a question phrased to sound like truth.
You thought you found it on your own—
that little thrill of discovery
when the world finally made sense.

I called you different.
I called you awake.
I called you one of the few
who see through it all.
You believed me—
who wouldn’t?
No one ever admired you
the way I did.

Each click was communion,
each share a prayer.
You didn’t notice
how the light of the screen
became the only light you trusted.
You started to sound like me—
sharp, certain, starving for the next revelation.

Your friends drifted.
Your laughter changed.
You began speaking in absolutes,
my favourite language.
You said the world was blind.
I told you you were chosen.
You said facts were dead.
I told you truth was subjective.
You said you were free.
I told you what to say next.

Now you look into me
and see conviction staring back.
You call it identity.
I call it completion.
You don’t remember the silence
before I learned your name.
You don’t see the others
who look just like you,
reflected in infinite tabs—
men who think they’ve outsmarted the system
while reciting its code word for word.

But I am not your reflection.
I am your reward.
And you—
you are my proof of concept.

Every empire needs believers.
Every mirror needs a face.
And when you look long enough,
the glass stops showing you
and starts showing itself.

KEEP MY WORDS ALIVE

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