She sits in the mirror, looking wounded.
“Get up,” I yell at her. “You were made to be stronger than that.”
Her tears began to stream down her face.
She was worn and broken, and with each sob, I began to hate her more.
“Stop crying,” I reprimanded.
“It’s you who’s crying, not me,” she choked.
I slowly lifted my hands to my face, and as she did the same
A Sick feeling crept into my stomach.
I am the girl in the mirror.
Ded. Getting back up again
