The mirror shows a ghost I barely know,
A painted smile, a story bought and sold.
These photographs, a mockery they seem,
A fabricated life, a broken dream.
From shattered pieces, I was born this way,
A fragile vessel, destined to decay.
The hands that should have shielded, turned away,
Each adult echo, in the disarray.
They wear the same mask, indifferent and cold,
A legacy of pain, a story to be told.
A silent wish, a whisper in the night,
That fading out might set the future right.
The final curtain, a peaceful, sweet release,
From constant torment, finally inner peace.
Disappearing holds no fear, no sting,
Just quiet solace, that oblivion will bring.