She glares at the mirror,
her eyes bleeding frustration at what she sees.
The porcelain perfection is hideous to wet eyes,
a testimony to the falseness of her actions.
She slaps the mirror with a bare hand,
ashamed of her outburst; singular emotion consuming her flesh.
She falls to the floor, screaming silent nothings
to her proposedly silent nothings in the sky.
Every ugly, hideous thing comes out from her.
Her pores bleed nonsense, sweet and dry.
Welcome to the pain of the hidden suffering,
please just look and do not touch.
