Come to blame?
Those cracks, both of
a heart, of a mirror,
breathing smoke
over a broken reflection,
as you might be
what you say you might be,
or you might be
the same as those cracks,
repairable as the next
broken faith.
I brought you here,
to a place where
all of your scars can be seen
from an uncovered spot,
where shadows cannot
seal your worth.
Love has correction,
while life holds eyesores
in its unbecoming sanity.
You are seeing clearly
the woman of your sadness.
But you do not wish to see
the light that’s behind,
for will it create another shadow,
or will you turn around?
Modern Romanticism 