they always warned her about broken mirrors: the way it’s pieces could pierce the skin, blood trickling towards her finger tips. but they never warned her about the smooth mirrors: whose reflection was full of tags, disgust staring back at her, scanning her body, imperfections screaming for attention. they never warned her about the smooth mirrors: the ones that hide nothing and reveal everything. they don’t leave the outer scars, never fully reveal the battle within– the desire to be happy, the recognition of the need to nurture.
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