At an early age,
through the tears I feared to shed,
I’d gaze upon the reflective surface
and believe I must be dead.
“Who are you?”
and turn away before the heartbreak
If not an illusion in each mirror,
then a personal hell to dwell in,
the deadly background laughter
explaining a torment others called sin.
my heart cried,
the image damaged my eyes.
Looking back at those days
I lament the inescapable futility
of chasing mirrors
to find one that reflected “me.”
©May 2015, Christina Anne Hawthorne