Modern Romanticism

You forced your scars
to open in blinding daylight,
curving your smile
into a fatal frown.

You bleed without wounds
that anyone can see,
except for me,

because I have understood
what won't close,
without another door,
another path forward.

But your feet are stuck,
your pace would be rigid
should you ever take a step
to find captivation
in anything else,
but the dark.

I can see you, terrified,
to become someone more
than everything you abhor
about yourself,

embedded in a mirror
where reflects your sores.