the voices and the mirror people

Their gaunt, emaciated faces stare out at me from the mirror and they dart to and fro about the room’s darkness. Their undercurrent of speech remind me that they are the voices of the dead, akin to all the voices I hear. Joan of arc with her charred hands reaches out for me in a somewhat crablike crawl across the floor as she pulls on the skirts of the bed. My grandmother screams out in the background about rebel flags and how the kkk are coming to get me. They are coming they are coming. They are coming. Voices emit color as they speak, as the soul emits an aura. All the dead I see have a cloudy aura with holes like sunspots in the atmosphere. The dead burn a hole in my eyes like sunlight burns a hole in plastic and ants minding their own business. There are background voices, like the hum of a tv or radio on in the background. There are specific voices saying specific things. There are the mirror people. There are my own internal voices of my fractured soul, each alter persona with it’s own unique opinon and syntax and voice.