Staring into the shattered mirror,
I see no hopes or dreams,
No vision of perfection;
only a reflection--mine.
A distorted version of myself.
For this cannot truely be my face.
But this glimmering,
Broken girl is me.
Only something isn't right.
I have no mouth.
Reaching my fingers
To an object on the counter,
A tear falls from the eyes
Of a girl who, for sixteen years
I have lived with,
But never really known.
The small object is now poised; ready.
It's smooth, shiny surface gleams
By the light of the bathroom.
A dangerous sign of expression.
The initial shock of the cool blade
Against my skin
Hurts worse than the cut itself.
Warm blood flows,
Carrying with it bottled words.
I keep cutting, slicing, hacking,
feeling my pulse quicken;
my mind race.
Exhilerated, I put the blade down.
Gaze at my new reflecton.
It's my first word.
It's also what I now am--my definition.
No longer must I feel
As if my reflection is distorted.
No longer do I have to live in silence.
Censoring thought and feelings
I was once too afraid to share.
I no longer have to live
Without the most important part of me.
I have a mouth.
True, it is makeshift.
But it works all the same.