Standing in front of the mirror,
I read a story.
A story told by my own reflection.
I read the story of a young woman,
only 22 years old,
that is tired before her time.
I read the words,
“I want to rest.”, etched into her eyes,
underlined and bolded by the bags beneath them.
Though more than anything,
beneath that subtle request,
I see the clear desire
to draw her last breath.
I close my own,
and as if reading braille,
reading a story told by the scars carved into her flesh.
Lining her left forearm, calves, thighs, and biceps,
they all tell a tale of self-loathing,
but also of resilience
strength of will.
She did not give in.
There are few words to be found;
just suppressed but powerful emotions.
She doesn’t seem to remember much—
merely the part of her minded that created them.
Fingertips across the stomach,
again the thighs,
raising to the cheeks.
She despises who she is,
The only word I hear from her:
Her right eye,
Why is she not at least half-decent looking?
I steady her trembling right hand.
All she sees is her psyche,
calls it shattered,
damaged beyond repair.
I follow her eyes to the pill bottles on the counter.
She counts the bottles—
one, two, three, four, five, six, bottles.
Two are the same medication.
Eyes on the purple pill box beside them;
For one day, she counts again—
one, two, three four, five, six, seven and a half pills.
My eyes move back to her.
We are eye-to-eye once more;
however, she smiles a wide smile.
It soon pulls to a goofy grin.
’You’re smiling like a fuckwit…, Little Bird.’
It’s… his voice I hear.
I only hear ’Shining Light’ as her heart skips a beat.
She actually… loses her words.
She can’t speak,
She can only grin.
Regardless of her thoughts,
her hatred for herself,
she found a piece of happiness in another.