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.

©MelanieMcCurdie

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s