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 spends hours in front of the fireplace, watching the flames frolic,
Wondering how she can imprint that kind of flickering into her own eyes.
And she does push-ups, biceps curls – whatever it takes, really,
Letting the throb of sore muscles mask the sting of her lacerated hands,
So maybe – just maybe, she will be able to lift up a shield next time.
She showers with the lights off now, so she doesn’t have to see her naked body;
Covered with scars that lie as angry, flaming ridges across her crass curves and abominable angles.
Rosy cheeks, bright eyes-
No, it’s flipped for her:
Bloodshot eyes, damp cheeks.
And so she sleeps to fast-forward time,
But life isn’t a movie, and when she wakes up, everything is still the same-
(More like a weak pause button, if anything).
She wishes she could melt away into silence,
But the damn beating of her heart gives her away each time.