mirror?

Where is the know-it-all smile

that you offered so deliciously before?

Who fired the first shot?

Or does it even matter anymore?

You sit so quietly with your barbed wire serenity

and no one allowed in.

You were beautiful in your frailty

once etched by a confident, razor grin.

What shrine do you pray to or protect?

It looks like an empty well from here.

And maybe that's why

you really look away in fear.

When I think of you,

I picture flashing white over blushing skin;

Is there absolution in red?

Or have you left that too with your sin.