I talk to the ghost in the glass.
He talks back low.
Says, “Boy, don’t blink.”
I say, “I know.”

Black suit, blue screen, boardroom hush,
old man gone and the whole house brushed
his name off the door like dust on a frame,
same last name, but the locks got changed.
Mom wears calm like a rented dress,
new ring bright while the flowers still fresh.
My uncle smiles with a wet-hand grip,
kiss on the cheek with a blade in it.
Phone keeps buzzing, “Are you good? Are you safe?”
I type three dots, then erase my face.
Every hallway got a camera eye,
every whisper got a lawyer nearby.
I hear my father in the elevator hum,
saying, “Son, count knives before you count sums.”
So I stand there still, with my jaw set hard,
holding my breath like a loaded card.

I talk to the ghost in the glass.
He says, “Look close.”
I see blood on a clean white cuff
that nobody knows.
I could strike.
I could pass.
I talk to the ghost in the glass.

She loved me once in a stairwell light,
now her texts read thin, all polite, all ice.
Her father keeps notes, her brother keeps score,
every “how are you” got a mic at the door.
I play mad so the truth can move,
make the room laugh while I lace the noose.
Put a play on the screen, let the guilty react,
watch his mouth go dry when the scene turns black.
That little twitch was a signed confession,
but my hand still freezes at the lesson.
Revenge got teeth, but it eats both ways,
takes the clean part first, leaves the rest in trays.
I find him praying in a private room,
could end him there, send the blade straight through.
But if heaven’s open, I won’t be his ride—
so I walk out sick with the knife still dry.

I talk to the ghost in the glass.
He says, “Look close.”
I see blood on a clean white cuff
that nobody knows.
I could strike.
I could pass.
I talk to the ghost in the glass.

Now the lights cut red and the piano hits iron,
pulse in my neck like a courtroom siren.
Curtain drops, chair flips, truth starts climbing,
every lie in the room finds timing.
She’s in the water with her dress gone wide,
flowers spinning where her words should rise.
Her brother lunges with grief in his fist,
I deserve that swing, I won’t dodge it.
Cup on the table, blade under skin,
every trap turns back on the hand that pinned.
Mother goes pale.
Uncle goes still.
Ghost says, “Now.”
And I will.

I talk to the ghost in the glass.
He says, “Come home.”
I see blood on my own white cuff
and I finally know.
I did strike.
I did pass.
Now I’m the ghost in the glass.

Tell them the crown wasn’t gold.
It was glass.
It cut everybody who held it.