waking up

I see a face looking back at me, a sad tired face staring back. Big purple shadows; like a purple pen bleeding ink on blank notebook paper. Her once beautiful hazel eyes are stained red and puffy from crying all night. Soft silky cheeks are now red and rough to the touch like sand paper, a sand paper girl eventually so used, she’s thrown away. Black hair that looked like the bright purplish color of a ravens wing, is now course and stringy like a corpse. The scariest of all though are her eyes so filled with anger and hate and fear and pain, oh such pain it hurts to look. How can someone so young be able to feel such pain?
This poor tortured soul looking back at me begs for answers, answers I don’t have. I have always had answers for everything, never needing to ask for help. But this poor girl, this . . . tragedy people made by calling her names, yelling at her, ignoring her, treating her as if she were never there. How can I ask for help for someone so full of pride? Because the girl looking back at me through the mirror, is me.





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