There's a stranger
in the mirror.
She looks at me,
seems to sigh.

Eyes that seem to have given up.
Pale skin that will break
and let a river of sadness gush
masochistically out.

Do I know her?
Is this me?
It can't be;
I am not this dark.
Not that hopeless,
God-forgotten.
Dead.

There's a stranger
in the mirror.
She pleads to me,
her mouth shut.

Lips that haven't smiled in years.
Dried tears that form a path
of stepping stones in a yard
overgrown with pain.

Do I know her?
Is this me?
It can't be;
I am not this empty.
Not that cold,
desperate.
Dead.

Yet it is a mirror.
And mirrors do not lie.