Mirror, Mirror.

Mirror, mirror on the wall

this really isn’t fair at all.

Who’s the stranger that I see?

Where are all the bits of me?

Where’s the baby small and fresh

who splintered when he licked her flesh?

Where’s the child who tries to hide

each time he comes to climb inside?

Where’s the teen he tried to strangle

with his hands and words that mangle?

Where’s the adult half asleep

who barely talks but likes to weep?

Where’s the mother drenched in fear

each time her baby sheds a tear.

What is this holocaust reflection

that glares with sinister perfection?

This fractured creature, 43,

it doesn’t look a bit like me.

I see the rape, the burns, the slaughter,

How could he sacrifice his daughter?

Mirror, mirror on the wall

this really isn’t fair at all.

This poem came to me when I saw this book.

Note about the use of word “holocaust”. I would never want to hurt any survivor or family members who lost relatives in WWII or minimise the enormity of suffering and devastation of the Holocaust for Jewish people by using the word holocaust in this poem. It’s my understanding that lowercase holocaust is not the same as THE Holocaust but if I am incorrect, please comment below and I will change the word. For myself, childhood trauma has been a complete and utter soul death and I felt the word appropriate.

Published by sarcasticfringehead

I'm an adult survivor of child abuse who documents therapy; a yellow brick road to hell.

9 thoughts on “Mirror, Mirror.

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