A Shattered Window

She looked at him

through the window.

“His face is marred”, she said.

“I don’t like the look of him.

            I don’t want him to look like that,”

She said.

“Why can’t he be different?”

            She wept.

                        She lamented.

            Then, she sniffled, determined.

“I’ll fix him,” she declared, with a nod.

 And with that she stuck. 

Hard.

The glass didn’t shatter, but a small crack appeared.

“It’s not enough,” she whispered,

            Saddened by her failure.

“I must try again.”

His face now split by the distorting crack

            Stared back at her

                        In pain.

Her finger bled where

            A small shard had cut

                        Through her skin

            In her attack.

Her failure haunted her

            But she was loath to try again,

The ache in her finger

            A painful reminder of her own inadequacy.

To another window she ran

            Hoping to escape.

Instead she saw my face.

“I don’t like the look of her,”

            she said.

“I don’t want her to look like that.”

“Perhaps this time I’ll succeed.”

And with that she struck.

            Hard.

And the window cracked.

But blood now dripped from her hand…

Another shard had cut deeply.

“I hate them!” she cried.

            “They cause me nothing but pain!”

“Why can’t they be different?”

“Why won’t they let me be who I am?”

The cuts festered,

            Sore and red.

Her failure hurt more

            Than the cuts on her hand.

She had tried so hard.

In her frustration she struck,

            Both hands this time.

A guttural scream

            Serenading the thumping

                        Like a drum and

            An out-of-tune fiddle.

The glass shattered to the floor.

The window was gone

            But in it’s place…

                        A blank wall.

Horror filled her eyes.

The window was no window at all,

            But a mirror.