Who are we really but girls praying to an assortment of gods and believing in nothing at all while we wait for bones to make us pure? We sit in dark rooms and cry to the sky begging for it to rain so it can mimic our sadness. And maybe some of us think that the rain will wash away the dirty parts of us, the parts that we wish weren't there, and make us clean again. But it doesn't. So we're left waiting in the same dark rooms looking at the same mirrors and scrutinizing the flaws that only we can see. We lose our faith and our family to something that isn't real. We get lost in mirrors and find homes with ideas that shouldn't have even been in our heads in the first place. No we don't care where we're going, it doesn't matter. We have bigger things to worry about like the fat hiding under our sweaters and the hatred injected in our veins. There is no world outside of the mirror. I've been taught that since day one. You live, breathe, sleep inside that mirror and if you should attempt to stray from the path then you will get sucked further in. Best not to even think about leaving. Where would that even get you? If you got out where would you go? You'd just end up back at the same place, the same mirror that you just escaped from. It's one big loop and it'll drive you mad if you keep trying. So we all end up finding the same thing out. What's the use in even trying? Answer: there isn't one.

Sometimes I think that there's another place for us, the ghosts that live in the shadows and pretend that the smiles we wear aren't part of the latest lie. And maybe there is. Maybe there is for the ones that break the glass and throw themselves into another dimension where they can learn to die in a whole different way. But what about for the ones who stay. The ones who cry out for the hunger. The ones like me who idolize rib cages and blue veins that run up our arms and connect to the centre of our bionic brains. Is it true that there is another place for us? Or is that other place death? Is that our only salvation? When does God decide to show up and save us from all the ugliness inside of ourselves? I'm beginning to think he doesn't. There isn't a hero in this story. There isn't a hero for any of us. We are stuck and that's all we'll ever be. Stuck for a little while and then we'll become bones and ash, like we always wanted, so we can make way for another person who will go after the exact same things we did and make the exact same mistakes. We are all copies of each other with differen't issues and different disorders. We will all cry to that big blue sky asking it to mimic or pain. And most of the time it will ignore us and we will be left empty and raw and waiting for the waves of hurt to dull and become bearable. We are clocks. Waiting out or fate. Waiting out our time. Waiting, just waiting. And that's all we can do.

I am a violent storm as are the rest of us. My scars are light, fading every day but they are the reminder. Everyone has their reminder. We wear them on our skin with shame because, as usual, that's what we were taught from day one. And in reality people are always asking " Is that so wrong?". Yes, it is. It is so very wrong. We are a mixture of pain and bitter sadness that mix in with blood from our skin and tears in the sink. It is wrong that we embody dead people. It is so very wrong that we are taught that our scars are something that we should feel bad about. None of us chose to be this way. I certaintly didn't. Those scars that we have marked upon ourselves show what others never could guess. They show everyone that we are fragile and most of the time we cannot deal with all the shifting of our minds. We cannot control our mental state, we cannot control the way it makes us feel. And people are scared of that. All the ones who live in a body that is not a prison but rather a house are scared because some of us are torn up from the inside out and we wear our pain like armor. People hate being reminded that we are fragile, wilting beings that rarely leave so much as a dent on this place. Do I blame them for that? No. How could I? It terrifies me to know that all I am is just another scar on my thigh and another day where I have been unable to look at a plate without wanting to cry. But this is who we have to be. We can't exactly hide from it. It is so much effort, effort that we cannot fathom or muster.

We are really nothing but a chorus of people crying to the sky asking for thunder and rain. We try our faith in Gods and religion and a macabre of family members that don't quiet get why substantial things are such a big deal. We dig our coffin money out early, wait for the day where we think we beat death at its own game and find that we are just like all the others before us. We will praise floral bones and empty stomachs until it kills us. We will look at the world as a dark place filled with shadows and monsters that are all out to get us. There will be no time for sleep. Our minds will run into the wilderness and ever come out. We will always be stuck in front of that mirror, laying on cold tile floors wishing that we had taken a different turn. Our flaws will burn us despite how minute or silly they seem to others.

All we will ever be is a girl in a dark room crying to the sky and getting lost in the wind. And our bodies will always be stuck behind that mirror just like our minds will always be lost in the wilderness. I don't know how else to explain it. I don't know how else to fix whatever is wrong with us. Like I said this is all we've ever been and all we will ever be. Words on paper that don't make sense tears in our veins infecting our bionic brains. Humans are strange creatures. We are an assortment of disorders and problems. I guess that's all there is to say about that. Not much more you can do to save the ghosts and reflections of people who never were or people that used to be.