I looked into the mirror and did not believe That this was actually me Just a heavy black cloud with teardrops for eye sockets, pouring down my chin The rolls of misery drip drip drip drip Mascara streaks, not streaking, no, but eating Eating my cheeks once so perfectly dabbed with rosy blush Eating them away like acid, Soot Black Puffy eyes so sad So miserable So Monstrous. Is this actually me or is this some fictional creature in a dream? Like a ghost from the Shining like the dead woman from room 217 like a death eater swallowing souls of the innocent like an undead soldier Like Death. Is it possible to look like death? Because that is what I saw. If death had a face, it would be that of mine in that polished mirror with the mint green walls on the sides and water on the countertops drowning my textbooks, drowning my sorrow, spilling onto the floor and just pure misery etched into every crevice of my face, every pimple like a canyon of b