She belonged to her mirror
To its image,
Its scorn,
Its glories,
Not hers.
The mirror?
It owned her.
And now she owns it.
Her image,
Her reflections,
Herself?
The emotions!
And the Passions!
Of the beauty
She never allowed herself
To perceive,
Accomplish, or receive,
Are now the histories
Of her being
And her own friendships,
Spites, tauntings,
Praise.
Hers?
Not the voices
Of a disappointed mother
Or an embarrassed lover,
Or an unruly society,
Determined to be run
By its own mirrors.
Take us! Free us,
Said long ago, silenced
Victories and emotions
That laid dormant,
In the dungeon
Of her bewildered heart,
That always gave
Her the keys
To escape,
That she never wanted to own
Until she almost couldn?t
Escape,
At all.
And now?
The town is awakened
By the sound of violent
Happiness?
Of a young girl,
Crushing and destroying
The remnants
Of the hand-held mirror
That lived her life
To the fullest
Without her consent.
And I sit back and listen
To the mirror's screams,
As its body is crushed,
And scattered
Across the wooden
Splintered floor.
And I watch?
I watch her?
Stomp on its pieces,
STOMP!
Its fantasies,
Stomp!
Its retributions,
Stomp!
Its revelations,
STOMP!
Its life
Stomp!
And on the lease
It held on her
Soul.
STOMP!
STOMP!
STOMP!
STOMP
STOMP!
age 20
*For a friend-she knows who she is.