Not as beautiful as I'd like. But I won't give up writing so easily. Dedicated to my girlfriend, the reason I keep going.
What 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


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,


Something almost recognizable.

A shadow of curiosity, confusion.


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.