He says I’m beautiful, but
I think his eyes are malfunctioning.
Nothing in the mirror shows
anything close to that description.
What I see are lines and scars,
cracked crystal memories;
Things I do not wish to remember,
are what I face every day.
Someone suggested, implied,
that my soul was leaking through the veil
and I cried until I laughed
at the deadly sweet naivety.
The undead don’t have a soul.
Look in the glass, the empty vessel
mourns the perspective he sees.