No Surgery Yet a New Face

My dark circles paint my typically pale complexion a deep shade of blue. The lack of sleep looking more like bruises, abuse on myself. The crack of my lips emphasizing the coldness I feel within me. The droop of my eyes and pout on my mouth raises concern to anyone who glances my way. Melancholy etched on my face, as the dismal and depression made a home there. I never meant to become this way. I wasn’t supposed to. I look in the mirror and see a stranger staring back at me, a reflection of what I’ve become, what I’ve lost. I only hope that the little girl who used to smile at strangers and run around barefoot isn’t dead. I hope she’ll find her way back. But I’ll keep forcing a phony grin on my face. Keep the suspicion to a minimum, per se. And wait for the day when getting out of bed isn’t a chore, when eating doesn’t involve tears. When the days don’t mend together and I don’t dread living. Because until then, this isn’t just a new face, this is the new me.