The Witching Hour

It's that hour between twelve and one.
You're splayed across the scene,
Shapes across tiles,
Crooked, late smiles.
Something's wrong with your hair,
And there's blue in your stare,
And everything is strange and twisty-wrong,
Like the words to some half-forgotten song,
That they sing over the graves of suicides,
And there's blue in your eyes.
Spilling over, round and round,
Your body twisted through the air,
Razor thin,
It draws you in,
A stranger looks back from the mirror and you're caught by him,
But he can't see your feet and you try and keep them
from him, he can't see them yet,
this isn't your time, your place, your hour,
it belongs to him.
And there's blue in your stare,
and there's magic in the air,
And everything is tangled.
Stretched taut-assured
and twisty as the tunnels that ants dig beneath your feet
that he cannot see.
And you don't even recognise yourself.
What sex are you?
Why are your eyes so sunken, your flesh so shrunken?
Why do you grin and blink out of sync?
And why is the blue seeping over your face?
That's entirely out of place.
But he'll come out in the wash.
And swirl down the drain.
But you're not quite the same.

Double over and you'll be fine.