The Vanity Mirror

She sits at her dressing room table, scorning her image in the mirror. She's beautiful, but she will always believe that she is unworthy for the sun's eyes to rest upon. Nobody knows why - nobody even knows. They all think that 'beautiful' is synonymous with 'confident.'

She reaches out her hand, fingertips meeting the cold glass of the mirror - she wants to break it as she is broken. But she will not. The shards of vanity would tempt her with their bladed edges, and she would falter from living. She can't trust she is worthy of the sun's warming gaze, but that does not mean she wishes to lose that guilty pleasure.

Her eyes find those of her unhallowed reflection. How can this abominable creature be she? The force that grips her vocal cords, warping other's perceptions with her silence, abruptly dies. The sound that is torn from her lips is startling and high, a keening wind of everything she is deluded into 'knowing.' And there, before that dressing room table mirror, she and beauty cry.