I am a vase.
I sit alone,
on a flimsy shelf,
my vibrant colors smothered
under a layer of protective dust.
Look closely,
There are cracks in my gently rounding curves,
almost invisible,
where pieces once fit.
All made by the hands of mirrored friends.
Where blossoms of entrancing beauty once stood
there is nothing.
I am empty.
I am a dandelion,
standing alone in a naked field.
My white fluff threatening to leave
at the breath of greener pastures.
I whisper for the gusts not to blow,
but they do not hear.
I am alone.
I am a mirror.
There I hang for all to gaze into
with agonizing vanity.
I am a result
of their deep-set hubris
and ever-present pride.
I am a window to their souls,
reflecting their imagined qualities
as the naked truth of their cruelty.
They smash my candor
into a thousand lacerating pieces.
And I am broken.