Hotel Broken Mirrors

She tried. God, she tried.

She scrubbed her skin until it burned, changed the sheets, drowned in strangers, and still his shadow clung like smoke.
Nights bled into mornings in bathrooms like this.
Red, raw, merciless. Where she bent over the sink, begging her reflection to obey.

She wrote it down like a spell.
Over and over.
As if letters could erase time.
As if a command scrawled in lipstick could unhook the body from its ghosts.

But memory doesn’t leave when you tell it to.
It hides in bone.
It floods the mirror until you can’t tell where your face ends and his begins.

This is not romance.
This is obsession turned into ritual.
A body haunting itself.
A woman fighting the war no one else sees, the one between what she knows and what she feels.

And she will lose.
Every time.