Whoa...

When I gaze into this broken, black, mirror, I see,
A tall, but not freakishly tall, young woman.

I notice a stereotypical-hypocrite staring me directly in the face.
This freckled-face teen could not be me, surely,

Because when I look into those cold, hurt, sky blue eyes, I see

A girl who regrets not saying “I love you” enough to her passed grandfather, her only, solid, father figure in her ball of crap that she called her life that can only be with her in spirit.

This female being with undulating curls in her hair,
Could this rebel-punk be me? ...