Marina ; ɒniɿɒM, Mirrored ; bɘɿoɿɿiM by Marina Marián Rodrigo

My twin and I lived identical lives: same school, same friends, same taste. But there’s a strain to our relationship, because we resent each other. Or more exactly, I resent her. 

Mom and Dad treated us equally, that was never an issue, but she has always been angry, and prideful. She has always been her greatest enemy. Her tongue spews poison, which hurts our friends, and then it’s me who apologises, but sometimes she won’t let me, because deep down, she’s scared of the consequences, and of herself. She’s my twin, so I could never leave her. We keep our mouths shut. She often fights with both Mom and Dad, each time slashing deeper into the ropes of the hanging bridge between them and us, but she won’t let me fix things until I cry and plead to her. 

We share flesh, we share blood, but our hearts are separate. Hers is incandescent, coal, it emanates warmth, and burns simultaneously. To be frank, I don’t like my twin, I wish I had consumed her in the womb, and then she would have never existed. 

But everytime I look in the mirror, I see her. It’s me. I hate– and it stares back.