I once saw a rundown house
sitting on a thin little frame
and thought it pretty to someone.
She doesn't understand,
when she speaks of me the same.
Reflections aren't supposed to lie.
I see less than she, or more depending
on what it is I am searching for,
anymore I see the rundown house,
weakened frame, but I can't find thin.
I think the scale lies,
perhaps just to me.
She says enough is enough,
look in the mirror and see what I see.
What does she see that hides from my own eyes?
I see less, perhaps more,
depending on what it is
that I am searching for.
I see things perhaps with death's eyes,
does she know it is killing me?
Has she seen me fall from grace
and turn from life as if pushed
into the depths of my own grave?
She must know:
it has me hanging on a thin frame,
rundown, weakened from neglect,
I guess I am pretty to someone
but I don't see it the same.
She asked how can you
let it rape you of life?
I guess someone should tell her
that I am already dead,
she doesn't see.
Copyright © Sandra Adams