People

I write about the “people” who have hurt me.
But what if the people are all inside my head?
The pain I say I have is real, but the torture I go through is only a reflection of one.

And it hurts—the thought of trying to see the face of who is really hurting me.
But when I follow the sleeve that covers secrets long unmentioned,
I see the color of her hair and her pale face, but her eyes stay closed, horrified to be read.

I see her right through the mask, because a tear fell,
And the mirror broke, shattering all around, causing a gasp and a shout.
Her eyes opened, and I finally saw I was the monster all along.

But why do I try to hide from myself, out of everyone?
Maybe because I know I can’t defeat her, and she knows she’s won.

A broken self, chipped and missing pieces—
The brutal mess of self-hate instead of self-loving.