A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Don’t listen too closely as the voices hush.
I am the jarring echo of brittle laughter
that blossomed within the cacophony 
before the quietude.  I am words
that once felt safe — camouflaged by white noise — 
but now sink in unanswered awkwardness 
across the divide. My words cut the silence, 
but the chorus in my mind whispers
you’re a broken record. As a stopped clock
is right twice a day, there are instances
your pitch offers melody or harmony,
but do not mistake that for talent, do not
confuse solitary notes with symphony.
Half-tone, full exposure. I wear confidence
and competence like borrowed flotation aids —
too late do I notice their decay. Praise and friendship 
are both waters I never learned to swim — 
is this where I drown? In the pitch black
I hold that my flickering candle is a passable
source of light and heat, but I meet
my betters in the sun and the spotlight both. 
Perhaps I am more moon than even candle —
the light I offer is not mine, merely a reflection.
The best I can hope to be is an adequate canvas. 
I am a vampire in the mirror of my mind.
What lies where light lands not? Where I look
for a likeness of image, I find only distortion of my truths —
inks smudged, discordant song, a failed performance check.  
The mirror sings back as I wait for you to realise
all is illusion — smokey miasma and polished glass.