Her eyes
Are empty
Yet full
Of memories,
Full of
Life itself

Her heart
Is shattered
But to
The naked
Eye, it
Is new
And clean
And fresh

Her wrists
Are scared
And shattered
If you
Don’t look
Too close,
You’ll never
Even know

She is
A mirror,
A reflection,
Not real,
But not
Fake either.
A living,
breathing paradox.

Nobody knows
Her secret.
Except herself
And her
Pen. She
Is what
Some people
Call:

A writer

A poet

A psychopath.

-B