PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I search my image,
looking deep into my reflection.

Who is that girl?
I don't know her,
she's not who she used to be.

This girl is cold, empty,
afraid to hurt, afraid to love,
unwilling to trust again.

I don't recognize the coldness in her eyes,
the mocking, cynical smile.

The scars, her own personal tattoos,
tred marks from the road of her life.

I don't know this girl,
but I know who she's not.

She's not the girl who once loved,
who lost herself in happiness.

That girl dreamed, hoped,
she was free, reckless,
but in the end it didn't matter anyway.

She changed too,
her heart turned cold,
her pain began to show.

She lost herself in the agony,
in the blade, slicing her skin.

Pretty soon she forgot,
where did the pain even begin?

Knives, staples, safety pins, glass,
razors, pens, pencils, scissors,
it never mattered, she's used them all.

Nothing could take away the pain,
the fear, the anger.

She tried to end it, this girl,
but she failed.

Locked up, suicide watch,
yet he was still there.

Every day he came,
just to see her for a while.

He took away some of the pain,
kissed each cut, held her as she cried.

That girl was weak,
pathetic, she's gone now.

I once knew her,
she's been replaced,
buried, forgotten,
she doesn't exist anymore.

I look away from the mirror,
I don't know that girl,
the me I once was.