There's something haunting about
Those shuttered windows that I find glaring back at me
Beautifully crafted, angled, enhanced,
Yet posed.
They don't crinkle when the rest of the face
Bursts into smile.
They don't leap into song,
Or dance, or joy.
Like a mannequin,
Breathtaking to look at,
Yet not breathed into with
Life
A cold, perished green iris revolves around each black hole,
Each vortex of non-existence.
Their gaze shifts from me,
To the clock,
Back to me,
And down.
Afraid I might see past the barrier a soul, I assume,
Must be hiding behind.
But could there be life behind such void?
Or is it because I only see void,
I assume that is the extent of the depth to her soul?
Ha! If only you knew!
She only presents the void to spare the world of the terror--
Pure and wholesome terror--
That she has lived through.
Who would want to know the story of someone
Who fought off pain for a lifetime,
Only to succumb to its company?
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.