I reached a hand into my chest and

ripped out that innocent part of me.

Then threw it at the mirror.

Where it became my reflection,

became my opposite. Then I would go on,

living my life, day after day sleeping.

Doing what I wanted at night.

Waking and dancing to neon lights.

And pulsing beats that electrified me.

With no guilt or conscience, no remorse.

Becoming a beautiful monster.

And everyone loved me so.

Yet in the end of it all. The story. My tale.

I would give in, obey the compulsion.

And stand in front of my mirror,

Naked, completely bare, soul deep.

And my likeness would weep,

at what I had become.

She would reach a hand

and caress the thin sheet of glass

that separated us, as if

she could touch and soothe the hurt.

And wanted to be One once again.
To fix what I wanted broken.

She would start at the top.

Her pale tracing finger, starting

with my dark hair, my kohl lined eyes,

to the purple smudges under them.
Stroke my cheeks where childhood

had all but melted away when she left.

Then she would gently drag her fingers

over my delicate looking collarbone,

to my breasts, puckered from the cold.

After, my reflected image would

flutter her hands, and trace the shape

Of my waist to the generous curve

Of my hips, making an hourglass gesture.

And I could see it in her hands,

time slipping away, tiny grains of sand,

falling to the ground where she joined it.

On her knees, she pressed herself to the ice.

Covered from head to toe in the white soft sand,

that mingled until I was unable to distinguish

it from the frost and the snow in her prison.

And there she sobbed, dry heaves, choking.

Pressing herself against the mirror.

So unable to be anything but pure.
Trying so hard reach me and my bottled up emotion.

And yet unable to hate at all, so innocent.

Not even able to hate the glass separation.

Just wishing, just wishing… to be whole.