She looks into the broken mirror;
Broken like her soul, her innocence, she thinks.
“What have I become?”
She whispers to her distorted self,
Her pure face tainted with the blacks of her mascara;
Cascading down her face with the flood of her tears.
Sometimes it’s just easier to accept;
Accept that she took the wrong path,
Accept that she’s made some mistakes
Accept that she’s broken because of society.
Why?
Why blame society for her own problems?
We should all stand together and frown upon her for judging the world, right?
Tell her if she’s going to accept then she should take the responsibility that comes with it.
But then once again I ask, why?
Take responsibility for what?
Maybe she’s too skinny or too fat
Or she isn’t what the media deems to be beautiful
She can learn to accept that, but take responsibility?
How does one take responsibility for being considered “ugly”?
How can she even cope with being called such a word that defines her by something she was born with,
Something she has no control over,
Something she cannot change without being a reproduction.
I think when she looks in that broken mirror,
Not only should she think “I am beautiful”
But she should see others telling her the same thing.
We don’t all look the same, but that is the point isn’t it?
How can society classify one as beautiful and the other just not quite good enough?
Especially when those girls we see in the media are not even the real thing.
We have become so obsessed with this fantasy,
This fake beauty,
That if someone’s looks don’t please our eye we forget to dig a little deeper.
What’s a beautiful face and body without a beautiful soul?
And if the soul is pure then how can small details like a face not be ignored.
Times have changed, it’s not even just about beauty anymore.
But those who don’t feel beautiful,
Who aren’t treated beautiful,
Decide to give up because it’s easier than facing the hate.
So now when she looks in the mirror,
With tears streaming down her face,
She’ll reach for the pills or the blades
And she’ll whisper “I give up” as she takes her own life.
It’s sad, but that’s the reality,
This isn’t some make-believe tragedy.
It happens, more often than one may think,
But what’s worse is the next day.
As the news spread around;
People cry,
Her true friends hurt,
Her friends who left her have the audacity to finally speak up,
And those who tormented her, hopefully, feel some guilt.
Think about it, it is true isn’t it.
They only care if you’re pretty or dead
But guess what?
Dead is too late to care about her,
Too late to try and help her,
Too late to just be her friend,
Too late to finally realize she was human too.
Too late,
Because she’s gone.