Fighting, it's all that they can stand to do.
Crying silently, I ask myself why they constantly argue.
It is not my mother and father that argue; for that has long past
It is my mother and brother quarreling over things that won't last.
I look out the window of the shabby place I am forced to call home.
Is that what home should be?
I look through my glasses into the mirror held in my scarred hands.
My tears leave a path.
A path they will follow again.
A path that burns to touch and is only satisfied when the warm, salty tears flow down my face.
Do not pity me,
for it will make me resent you.
Because you think you understand.
You look at me and don't take a second glance.
For you pity the hopeless.
But hopeless is far from I.
I dream of justice.
I dream of love.
Ah, love the subject we hesitate on.
Does it exist?
Should everyone be able to love?
If so, why haven't I?
I throw the mirror across the room.
Who am I?
A girl who dreams,
who feels pain,
who needs love,
who is scarred.
I kneal to pick up my now cracked mirror.
I hear something.
I looked down to the mirror I have been caressing.
My tears fall on to the mirror in rythym with my heartbeat.
I look past my tears.
I see my face, my expressions.
I look so much older for I do have fears.
Do I look like I feel?
Scared, pained, and sad? Yes.
The mirror and I have something different,
I don't show what I feel on the inside.
I bottle it up.
I am a warrior,
not allowed to show fear,
told to suck it up,
told to do what they want.
What about what I want?
Do they see that?
The mirror and I have a lot in common.
We are broken,
not shattered but broken,
delicate and small,
beautiful but ugly,
Now, you say I have nothing to hold on to?
I have the mirror,
I have my dreams,
I have dignity
even though I am pain-stricken