Like a vampire in a hall of mirrors,
She lacks reflection, so finds no escape.
She stands alone, surrounded by her fears
In an endlessly repeating landscape.
She’s lost without an outside reference.
She’s the living dead whose life is murder.
She bows to hopelessness with deference,
and won’t accept the help that’s offered her.
All those who love her best she hates the most.
She takes their sustenance, but no advice,
till they become weary of playing host,
because their support can never suffice.
Eternal victim, all she’ll do is grouse.
She finds no joy in her darkened funhouse.