Vanity was ripped off me with
violence.
It wasn’t a merciful, compassionate
process.
It didn’t give me time
to slowly get used to the idea.
It was ruthless, cruel as our final
hour.
My mind sees me youthful and tender,
But the mirror shows the sorrows I
carry
Disguised as overflows on my body’s
silhouette,
Burdens of mournings not digested,
Disillusions not accepted.
The ideal dream not fulfilled,
Failure printed in the wrinkles of
my face.
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