1What a poor, poor girl.
She looks so scared.
Lonely and broken,
with tear tracks glistening
on her cheeks.
Her shoulders are slumped in an
out of shape way,
as if all the shrugging responses
have worn them down.
Her lips are scarred,
bruised, chapped, faded,
from forcing back down
burning questions.
She looks me in the eye,
but I can tell from the way her gaze
flickers
to the side so often
that it's not something she's accustomed to.
Her finger fidget quietly, constantly,
frustrated with the lazy hand that owns them.
She mouths
who are you?
And I'm surprised.
For a brief, slip of a moment,
there.
Something almost recognizable.
A shadow of curiosity, confusion.
Hope?
And I look closer.
Long, limp hair
(I finger my own neglected strands)
Dirty, untrimmed fingernails
(I pick the crud under mine)
Tired, tired, red and worn eyes
(I blink, to clear my vision)
And suddenly I realize
that even the bathroom mirror,
one I've checked my appearance in
each morning for years,
can't recognize me.
And wonders who this
scared, broken, defeated little girl
staring into its depths
could be.
8.1.07