I stand in front of the mirror in a bared vulnerability as if my reflection could kill. I avert my own eyes as a lingering shame surfaces itself from its hallowed shelter. For once the girl who stares back at me is gaunt with an unfamiliar, stoic emptiness.
My skin itches. There is this implacable discomfort that accompanies living in my body. If I could, I would dig my nails into my flesh until blood blossomed at the surface and then I would peel back my skin in layers. Maybe then I would understand who I am supposed to be. Bones marred in blood could tell me of the life I should have lived.
With my skin hanging at my feet on the floor pooled in blood, I would stand with a reserved contentment. Perhaps then people would be able to see who I am…