I see myself changing,
becoming what I hated most.
Loathe for my self grows with
every mirror I shatter.
The shards of one image of lies
scattered through the air
becomes as thousands in number,
multiplying also my rage and despair.
I think back to the little girl,
the one in Springtime dresses and smiles,
only to deepen my melancholy.
I smile for pity’s sake
as she errantly giggles too loudly in her dance.
Butterflies scatter in a ticklish pillow
of white and orange and black and yellow
all around her.
Then come the screams of reprimand
to rob her smile and force my tears.
Stripes from throny switches
cut through flesh and cloth to stitches,
bemoan her dignity spent.
Spring becomes Winter,
with a soul meant to grow
now buried, hidden in the frozen ground.
I have found that,
even to this moment,
where my blood escapes me
through a fury of seeping wounds,
that my past is full of days,
all just the same
as yesterday and today.
Hazy days, daisy daze,
sinking, slipping away,
warm and cold, so tired before
the approach of my gentle repose.