(no subject)
Mirror,Mirror
By: Halle Whalen
The Girl Who Looks Into Me Every Morning
(and blames me for what she sees)
You call it make up.
I call it a mask.
You apply that powder
to cover the sourness
that seeps out of your mind
and drips down your face.
The hurt in your eyes
is coated
with black mascara
and is contradicted by white eye shadow.
Your flushed, pale cheeks
have turned a shade of rosy red,
and this time it's not because
you snuck into
your mother's make-up case.
The lips you kiss him with
but use to flirt with other boys
have become a sparkled mess of pink.
And even after this illusion is over,
you still look at me as if you want to hurt me,
smash me into pieces,
to make a mess of glass on the floor,
and use that glass to cut yourself.
Instead,
you just stand there,
staring at me,
letting your mascara run,
repeating to yourself,
"I will not eat today." .