Staring blankly into the mirror,
All I see is a moth,
The ugly duckling among a world of swans.
In her hands is a broken razor,
Tiny drops of blood fall,
Mixing with the powder on the counter.
She looks like me,
Sounds like me,
Feels like me,
But she’s off.
Not quite perfect,
Fabricated,
Like Hollywood lie trying to photocopy,
A mistake.
My brother knocks at the door,
And the handle twists in slow motion.
The heavy wood creaked open,
His small face popped inside the door,
Trevor’s blue angle eyes grew wide at my open wrists,
Little lips parted to release a blood curling scream.
But all I heard was a small ringing,
And fuzziness filled my vision.
I cast my gaze at the girl in the mirror.
And that was the last sight I saw,
Before the famous blinding light,
Came to claim my soul.
The soul of a mistake.