Shall I peer into my looking glass, my darling?

I stare at the girl through my looking glass. In her smile, self-deprecation sighs. Voices in her head whisper chaos, as she screams internally for attention- Begging any deity above to save her. Oh dear, doesn't she know? The looking glass might just crack, from a world where fight becomes flight. "Oversized clothing is comfortable"- but is modesty the only veil it covers? An intention battles with desperation to hide Desolated reality claims her of their own: an incessant prompt of a fallen angel, breaking herself for the broken is inexorable, It's a broken bargain she doesn't choose, but to be loved, is to be chosen. She articulates herself yet she succumbs,. Maladaptive daydreaming paradoxes her sense. She writhes in anguish- a masterful tragedy of her own scripting. It's funny how one contradicts their beliefs, though expectations were meant to be shattered either way. She was a book: lovely words scripted in her eyes, meant to be read, but left unsaid. They were dyslexic, wearing blind irises as if it were a trophy. Perhaps tragedies are inevitable intricacies?- meant to be created and destroy you in process. The looking glass cracks. I reach my hand out to save her. But oh, how she masks herself in the shadows! Familiarity of a saying: "addiction kills", begs me to decipher if we were born to die. The girl in the looking glass, she has a certified doctorate in application, relapsing to fleeting dreams and nightmares... Shall I peer into my looking glass, my darling?