They say that time heals all wounds ,
so why am I still beaten and bruised?
Fists have never touched my skin,
yet my heart has been battered from abuse.
The bitter taste of regret lingers in my mouth,
haunted by the memory of past lips on mine.
I've become a shadow of myself, made up only of glass;
shattered and put back together far too many times.
Mirrors have never been a friend of mine,
for I always see past what my physical reflection shows me.
I can't even recognize who I am anymore,
because I'm stuck between who I was
and who I want to be.