Is it just a shape?
Standing and staring down at itself in the mirror.
Is it just a figure?
Or a human meat suit,
Surfacing the humanity inside?
A scratched souvenir?
Or just a proof;
Of existing and going through life,
Through space and time,
The very tiny and insignificant in size.
Then when that figure catches the sight,
Of the window to her lost soul,
Her eyes, screaming and crying for help,
As if trapped in a cage,
Desperate to breathe, the air outside.
Scarred, shattered and stumbled upon
Like a hidden, left broken glass, scattered everywhere.
Is there any hope?
Left of a better view and perception of the world?
Do great intentions still exist?
Can she gain a piece of self love and pride?
Mercy and fear,
Kindness and care,
But any opportunity left to be brave?
