I look at the mirror
to only find her staring back,
she who's mastered the art of smiling
and to hide those stray tear tracks.

Silence is her weapon of choice,
it's edgy tip enough to raise dread,
in face of her frosty ire, one would
prefer the bursts of temper instead.

Like the duck that paddles in calm,
she too rests surrounded by muck
and underneath, her fury churns,
ready to blast it all to dust,

She's picked up every insult,
stored it in a corner to recollect
and designs her story of vindication
ripping apart every shred of regret.

Her hands are coated in blood
of the desires that she choked to death
she has emerged strong from battles
and slayed monsters who rest under her bed.

The dirt underneath her nails
should tell you the moral of her story,
she is not deterred by pain,
she is not enamored by false glory.

I see her staring back at me,
and raise her chin in pride,
her scars wave the sign of victory,
I only need to follow in stride.