Perfect. Hollow. Dead.
You've plastered up the holes
and admired your reflection.
Placed on a shelf up on high
you were told, "You're special."
"You're pretty. Remain that way."
The dust of time muffled the mirror's glamour and your sight.
The emptiness inside seeps through the cracks you hide,
concealing your fate to solitude.
Those china blue eyes have not shed tears,
yet those lips are red from the spilt blood of innocent hearts.
Those cheeks blossom from the derision of those beneath your shelf.
Your hair is braided by a silver comb you used to incorporate Vanity's demands.
Unblinking. Cold. Alone.
People come and go, yet you are left behind
frowning upon the broken.
Your beauty was your destruction.
Dead. Hollow... Perfect?