The Panther That Does Not Sleep

Ever since I inherited the treehouse, the black panther has taken up residence in the bathroom mirror. It does not reflect the room, but rather a humid jungle that does not exist a place where the creature gazes at me with eyes that belong not to a wild beast, but to someone who knows how to walk on two legs. Tonight, as I leaned over to wash my face, the panther opened its mouth and spoke my name in my late mother’s voice.
There are no tearing claws or answering roars only the patience of the shadow, waiting for me to blink so it can take my place. This morning, I woke up with the metallic taste of raw meat between my teeth and without my reflection; the mirror is completely clear. This morning found me with a knot in my stomach, wondering what became of the man who turned her into the beast that leafs through my love stories while I sleep.