Looking Glass

I like mirrors, don't I? Or,rather, I hate them. I don't know, it's late.

Looking Glass, upon the wall

Who is the most beautiful one of us all?

Is it the porcelain doll?

With her body of glass?
With her thin lips and empty eyes

Her poses determined by people with masks

Who feed her silver lies

From a spoon of brass?

The girl with the red ropes

laid heavily on her skin?

Who's only comfort are the whispers

hissing that her shining metallic savior

Is the only way

to deal with her hidden pain?

Or the one hidden in a corner,

Her outlines fading

Against a sea of judgement

towards her individuality

with her future, grey

In a world of black and white?

Is it the outspoken mouthpiece?

Who uses pretty words

and loud tones

to hide her insecurity 

behind a rotten mask of purity?

What about the downtrodden menace

Who has dealt with too much 

Seeing nothing but an angry crimson

wilting people with a simple touch

of a personality brazen 

by betrayal and loss?

The powdery victim, with her watery smile?

Her eyes betraying fear

Her tears betraying complicated love

as the running powder reveals
the black and blue stains

of pain?

Looking Glass, upon the wall

Who is the most beautiful one of us all?

For I see no clear winner

In your deep, opaque depths

Perhaps

There is no victor

For in this utterly useless race

Wouldn't beauty come

from a much more intriguing place

than the conjuration of vanity

of the body or face?

Yes, it would

And it does

Alas

here is a simple truth 

in the reflection

of a simple looking glass.