Hello.
Me again.
I wrote this, erm, quite a while back. But recently found it. Yeah, a lot of my recent works aren't this dark, but, I do love a good dark piece now and then, so this one caught my attention.
Because, honestly, who didn't love their melodramatic teen years? (All right, so I'm still a teenager, but next year I'll be an adult so blah! smile )
I'm not sure what to call this. It's not quite a poem, not quite an article or story. I guess I'm going to refer to it as a "musing". I rather like the analogy of refering confusion and life to a broken mirror. Baha. I do think that I packed on the "drama" in this to the point where it might become sickening, but, I still like it, even though it hardly reflects my emotions today.



The mirror in which I used to look at myself and truly know who I am has been broken for sometime. I don't exactly remember how it shattered, but the millions of tiny pieces are scattered in front of me.
For years I've tried to put the mirror back together. But the edges of the broken glass are sharp and cut my fingers.
But I've held on, I've pushed through the pain, and I've continued to attempt to put the mirror back together. There's blood everywhere. My blood. And my fingers are so cut up from trying to piece together my mirror - myself.
I finally managed to restore a portion of the mirror. It's a slight accomplishment, because there are many many pieces left to put back together.
I try to look at myself through the tiny restored piece... but my efforts are in vain.
I can't see a thing through all of the blood I shed trying to put it together. So I try to wipe the blood away... but more pours through my fingers from the wounds that even time can't heal. The glass has cut it too deep.
I'm starting to feel dizzy.
And I know I can't go on much longer.
My mirror remains un-restored.
And my lifeless self falls onto the pieces and the last drops of blood pour out from my fingers.