The Mirror

March 6, 2008
By
I saw that girl every day
with her long brown hair and deep blue eyes.
She would sit in front of me and stay,
telling herself all kinds of outrageous lies.

“I’m not pretty; I’m just not smart,”
she would say to herself.
All her words would break my heart
as I sat silently upon her shelf.

I saw the things she could never see,
like the heart of gold deep in her chest.
Without fail, she made sure to dust me,
yet remind herself that she wasn’t the best.

How I longed to tell that beautiful girl
the truth of the matter
But each day when she got home from school,
her tears across me would splatter.

“I hate my life, and I hate this place!”
she cried to me one day.
I wished that I could wipe the tears from her face
and find the right words to say.

But all I could do was display that which she hated most:
the image of herself reflected in my cool, hard glass.
I wanted to somehow tell her this, though I was merely a ghost:
A beauty like hers would be impossible for another to surpass.

After one day, one that was particularly cruel,
In her frustration, she slammed her first into my middle.
Like a gunshot wound, the cracks began to duel;
Though it was my demise, the black web solved the riddle.

She slowly took her hand away from me, trying hard to stand.
Her face reflected her amazement at what it was she saw:
Drops of bright red blood trickled down her pale, gentle hand.
She was astounded to see… she was human after all.

She looked up into me, and I saw her tears—
the tears that no longer represented pain,
but ones that represented the disposal of her fears.
I saw that she realized how much she had to gain.
Her gentle hand traced over my battle scars, and
the sorrow in her eyes made me die inside.
I felt my time with her dwindle away like grains of sand,
like I never even really tried.

Her mother wanted to take me away,
but the girl simply wouldn’t give her consent.
She said she needed to see me stay
because I had given her life and she no longer needed to repent.





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