She looks in the mirror. What does she see? Isn’t even a reflection of me. So meek, so shy, so passive is she. What she is, that isn’t even me. Who is this stranger beneath the sheets? Who stands there bare staring back at me? I thought I knew. I thought I could see. Every time I start to know.. boom. It isn’t even me. Will I ever know the truth, will I ever see? What the truth is behind “me.” I’m thankful for that girl stripped bare. The one who was raped. Beaten. Left as a piece of meat. That girl.. she.. is me. Even with life has handed me, I hold onto the beauty that only I see. The world and how pretty life can be. Who is that? It is she. She is one and one is me.