Mirrors sit there idly,
forever enticing me.

From far beyond silvery abyss
comes a dare to look without distress.

It’s true, there once was beauty here
or so I always seem to hear.

But I cannot remember a time
these crimson petals still had their shine.

All that remains now is a short stem,
emerald with envy, hardly a gem.

My many thorns stay sharpened by hatred,
isolating me, never truly shed.

While these teary raindrops fall,
I realize that you will not call.

Drooping with death, so sick of the games.
A lack of sunlight must be to blame.

Oh how I loathe this reflection,
desperate for great affection.

But like a suffocating room,
the bell jar drops, becomes my tomb.