A Mirror of Doubt

 a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You have always been skeptical—
not in the way rain doubts the sky,
but like a gambler who eyes the deck,
knowing the cards can’t be trusted
because his own sleeve is heavy with kings.

You watch him speak, weigh his words
like coins you are sure have been clipped.
A compliment is a trade, a kindness
a hook, a hand extended only
to pull you closer to his own design.

You call this wisdom. You wear it
like armor, convinced it shields
your ribs from the blade, but you never
question the weight of your own hand—
how often it has drawn the dagger first.

You tell white lies,
so you see his words as ash.
You smile for gain,
so you mistrust his joy.
You hold doors open
only when they lead
to your own fortune,
so you call his gesture
a trick of the light.

It is easier to doubt
than to face the raw sinew
of your own reflection—
to say aloud what you know:

That the fraud is not him,
but the shadow you cast.

Tonight, he sits across from you.
"You should apply," he says,
voice uncoiled, weightless.
"You’d be perfect for it."

You smirk. "Why tell me this?
Are you just paving the way
for yourself?"

His face folds into quiet.
"Not everyone is like you."

The words press into your chest,
slip under your ribs like a secret.
Not everyone is like you.

You laugh, but it curdles in your throat.
The room, suddenly too small.
The light, suddenly too clean.

Later, you stand in the mirror,
eye your own mouth forming
the words you never said out loud:

What if the lies, the barter,
the careful undoing of trust—
what if they were yours alone?
What if his hands were empty,
and yours the only ones
threaded with strings?

For the first time,
you are unsure.
For the first time,
the doubt does not
point outward—
but in.