A share of me hopes to believe the thoughts I think are true.
That I am the girl in the mirror,
Rich and supple of luring supply.
But I know that mirrors lie,
They reflect our heart’s desires.
A reflection of what we wish to see,
Never the truth of which we flee.
Reverie remains a drug of choice,
To amuse my abounding fictions,
That I am that girl, fictitious,
An event of wishful thinking.
And so if this is truth?
Will I wallow in my sinking?
Because I know she shan’t exist?
The girl I must instead resist in search of things internal.
Where skins do die and rot till dust,
The spirit remains robust.
When fed with cordial suns of much,
A harvest shall rise up wild.
And some will only know of dust and barren crops, defiled.
and why I must persist to beat my faulty seeing eyes...