She is soft and fragile - a dove with a broken wing,
mangled to a point of desperation, giving anything to fly.
I am hard and pointed, all that’s left is the sting
of a broken down life and conflicted soul.
A rose may wither, but the thorns never die.
She is my contradiction, dying for escape.
She stares with such conviction, a frantic gaze
from within the lookingglass -
crying to live, tempted to let life pass.
She tempts me so.
Arms outstretched towards me,
always whispering in my ear.
Her objective is clear, but her words,
so sincere.
But there are cracks in her surface.
There are cracks in my surface.
Here she comes again,
at least, every now and then.
Here she comes again, stronger than she ever was before,
ruling over me with so much strength and might.
I can no longer put up such a fight.
She has returned, and I may never again.
It is cause for great concern.
She has returned, and I may never…
