Sat, 04/02/2016 - 18:29 -- SDivi14

The face I see in the glass won't smile back at me, and I can't help but wonder why.

I guess she isn't who she wants to be, and it always makes her cry.

The water rushes down her cheek like a flood, salty and as thick as blood.

The scars are too deep to see, but they are perceptible, plain and painful all the same.

She can't hide them, or hide from them; they follow her, plaguing her like the memories that caused them.

She is afraid to keep them, but she just can't let them go.

If she did, she would be clean, but the dirt of her past is planted deep into the Earth, part of the whole.

Who would she be without them?

This poem is about: 
Our world


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