The only way she can look at herself in the mirror is if it’s shattered;
Then, she can entertain fantasies about the parts of her face that the cracks distort.
She lets others cut her into a billion pieces with a blade she’s more or less handed them;
Her arms were always too weak to defend, and giving was all her naive mind knew to do.
But when she’s alone, when she tries to fix herself by picking up the fragments, she cuts her palms with the shards,
And when she tries to sew the pieces together with a thread of her strung faith, she pricks her fingers with the needle;
Blood beads crawl down her wrists; a striking resemblance of luxurious red silk gloves.
She’s told the only way out of this darkness is for her eyes to light the way,
But she can’t remember the last time her eyes shone, unless you count tears, which, they apparently don’t.
And so she…
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