Looking at how she is viewed
she is not concrete
A pearlescent banshee
staring into a hallway of mirrors,
Always invisible to the world that matters
A glimmer to a thought.
A shimmer to a dream
A sliver of a person
Pretend her soul is untouched
That itself is the mirror that can not be faltered
But does she not see those fingerprints?
The oil that twists the way she is?
The smudge of reality
in the end she craves serenity
She is starved and
the truth goes right through her
and the only thing that can she can reach
is another banshee --another mirror
just as twisted as her own.
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