I look at the mirror, and I see an image of my soul.
The black bags under my eyes, the acne covering my face, my hair as black as charcoal, my eyes as black as darkness, my lips as young as the blossoming red roses, my face, a ghostly hollow face.
I look at the way I move my hand, the way I can do whatever I want to do with it, I'm perplexed, how come I have this body? And this power? This power to move my hands and legs? To do harm or good? To feel pain and exhilaration? To continue living or to end the misery? How do I have this power? The capability of such magic?
I touch the mirror, trying to reach out to my reflection, begging it to take me along where it is, only to be restricted by the thin glass, as thin as ice, and as thick as cement.
Reflections, they're so close yet they're so far away.
YOU ARE READING
Rosētum
PoetryHere lie the roses, the roses that are the foundation of my rose garden, pluck them gingerly, here lie the roses that grew full of toxins and purity. Here lies my heart, My Rosetūm. All pictures in the story are mine!
