Beautiful,
but tragic
tear-stained face
scrutinizing the person stuck behind the mirror.
What's wrong?
No one else will say,
but she could write a novel
with pictures and fucked up anecdotes
only she remembers.
As she stares at her reflection,
reflecting on her complicated story,
wondering, yet again, if they're
concoctions of her overactive imagination
or if she's being gaslit
to forget it with a smile.
All the while, the culprit runs free,
not once dragged down or even hindered
by their crime spree or all the victims lying in their wake
because there's only one
and one must be lying
because the defendant is just too kind.
Smashing glass
and punching walls,
frustration in her bones.
Run and hiding all alone,
carving a line of imperfection,
cordoning off a section
with an incurable affliction
to hide her other imperfections.
It didn't work.
Now she's damaged inside and out,
but then again, she's never had a doubt
about her negative worth as a person,
though it still steadily declines
with yet another carved line.
Scarlet hits the ground
before her self-compassion is found.
She's broken and in ruins,
shattered like the mirror
she destroyed for its unbridled honesty;
the hole in her chest like the hole in the wall
she broke her fist through.
The little girl is gone.
She ran away
and she's never stopped running.
YOU ARE READING
The Things We Don't Talk About
Poetry***Trigger Warning: Mental health, mental illness, eating disorders, suicidal ideation, self-harm*** A collection of poems delving into the dark side of the human experience. From high highs to low lows, emotion can be intense. And this collection s...
