By Rishita Bhargavi
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Am I not pretty enough for them all?
Is being alluring not my dole?
I probe, overlooking thine crushed soul.
They say your beauty resides inside,
Yet only the slender and fair qualified.
Can’t be too tubby, nor too lean,
Inwardly weary, just to be heard, to be seen.
Oh, the penury of bliss, of glee,
A hollow ache, deeper than the sea.
Oh, and beauty isn’t pain, no,
Just a silent hiss, leading to infinite woe.
For such twisted ways, you call them bold,
Guess you haven't seen the insanity unfold.
My soul is weary of this dance,
Maybe if I wither, I’ll own your glance.
So I defy and try to resign,
Alas, the decree isn’t mine.
Instead of a spirit I don’t recognise,
Of a half-dead soul, who craves this disguise.
So lost in fatigue, I wouldn’t spare a thought,
Though the shadow of who I was is left to rot.
Yet once caught in this snare,
To leave it behind if I dare,
Cross paths with stares and bleeding scars,
Maybe ponder, and lie forever in the stars?
Mirror, mirror on the floor,
Who do I tell this lore?
You lay there, broken and scattered,
And I wounded; it's never mattered.
But let me not ‘fret beyond reason’ and concede,
In the end, it isn’t even worth the endless plead.
So, mirror, mirror on the wall,
About this inevitable fate, I can only scrawl.