𝒴ℴ𝓊'𝓇ℯ ℴ𝓃 𝓎ℴ𝓊𝓇 ℴ𝓌𝓃 𝓀𝒾𝒹 － 𝒶 𝒷ℴℴ𝓀 ℴ𝒻 𝓅ℴℯ𝓂𝓈

1

I look in the mirror,

Only to no longer recognize

The girl looking back at me.

I look down at my hands,

Only to see my nails unnaturally long,

Covered in a color

I was made to tolerate.

I run my fingers through my hair,

Only to feel the greasy strands

Of my bleached blonde hair.

I look myself in the face,

Only to see the smudges of mascara

Left over from the days before.

I look in the mirror,

Only to no longer recognize

The girl looking back at me,

But I know

That somewhere deep down

That girl is dancing

And singing,

Trying to find her way out

Of this newfound

Teenage mess.