I see my reflection,
In the broken hair strands,
Splitting half my soul;
In the eyes of people,
the pupil growing wide on me;
In the edges of my neatly cut fingernails,
gradually tearing more of my cells;
In a fed-up sigh,
ailing inside;
In the imprints of handwriting,
carefully carving down my perceptions;
In yellow, orange and red,
Sometimes in black and blue
Too rare to find in pink;
In the breaking voice between every word
that I have ever spoken;
In the forced smile
and unwilling consents;
In a wild-grown tree
Dressed in spider web,
Turning yellow and then brown;
In a brazen procrastinator
proudly returning to the void;
In cold stares and
irking bad moods;
In the winged fairy warriors
holding dagger in their hands;
In the museless days
finding the meaning of life,
Covering my face with thoughts,
And I ask you,
'How do I look to your eyes?'
-vaishdas
