Her mind is a whirlwind,
Of disappointments and failed expectations.
Of opinions and standards,
That are placed on her shoulders.
Of hopes and dreams gone down the drain.

And her pillow,
Stained with blooming dark spots,
Of nights before,
Of tears running silently,
Like rivers of sorrow,
Of translucent tracks on her cheeks.

Then her mirror,
Of shattered reflections,
Of wishing,
That the girl in the glass was different,
Of numbers on scales.

Last, her world,
Of unrealistic ideals,
Of lies presented as realities,
Planting seeds of false hope.
Of carefully crafted facades.

-Anna Roy