Whose eyes am I behind?
Two pale lifeless souls that do not light her sky,
sees everything in an unfamiliar light,
a film of frosted glass hides what is within.
Reticent blinking over tears that run dry.
Whose lips surround this line?
White and weak pilgrims that do not blush or stand.
Tasting everything is cardboard, no variety.
They are undefined, continuous with skin,
unloved guards of her body, uncared for, bland.
Whose skin is this design?
Rough like a snake’s, with a similar pattern.
Translucent sheets can’t hide cracks papery.
So delicate, so vulnerable, her body
tries to protect itself against itself uneasily.
Whose ears hear these sounds so fine?
Voices whisper all around, the paranoia.
Gossiping lies no one else detects at all,
but she is deaf to protests and arguments,
not answering, refuse to acknowledge her fall.
Whose scents are these I find?
False perfume disguising, enshrouding her,
permits her escape, not realising the truth.
She has a problem that won’t just go away,
mistakenly she believes they’re lies, there’s no proof.
Whose face is etched in time?
This stranger with no expression regards her,
mocking and laughing, crushing her self esteem.
Blank mouth, unsmiling eyes face her in the mirror,
she closes her eyes, forgets what she’s just seen.
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