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A Practiced Actress
There's something haunting about
Those shuttered windows that I find glaring back at me.
A cold, perished green iris revolves around each black hole,
Each, a vortex of non-existancy.
Their gaze trepidly searches the room,
Meets my own,
And falls down.
Afraid I might see past the barrier a soul, I assume,
Must be hiding behind.
But could there be life behind such void?
If only you knew!
She has long practiced that empty stare
To spare the world of the greater terror
That would seep out of a smile or tear.
Who would want to know the story of someone
Who has succumbed to the company of Pain?
But no one can see past her facade,
Nor does anyone care to.
And, with a sickly contented shrug,
I walk away from the mirror.