Her form is a one-way mirror aimed at hate.
Our truth is of a beauty waiting
this small unstable set, glacial pure dewrop,
unrippled to the wind to which she's always braced.
Features from her face protrude, and are held strong
but so diminutive soft and smooth to the air
and trickling gypsy tresses fall at these cheeks.
Swaying together as hair-like feather veins,
so threadbare, stopping on her upturned lip ridge.
A red capillary wave carrying rouge,
so often now to be splashed under those cheeks.
All so often now those eyes catch me.
Hue of deep sleeping, enough to lose the awake.
every blink closed my airways. So i gasp
at the rising of those two black suns.
Her truth is what se sees in us however.
The glass cracks like mercury lightning with the attack,
she turns the mirror, to see herself in it's back.