• Pale.
    That's me, in the mirror, pale as all hell.
    But is it really?
    I'm not supposed to be this pale, I never was before.
    That pale skin, so abnormally white,
    still bleeds a crimson red.
    That hasn't changed.
    Yet the contrast of such white to red,
    is beautiful,
    and therefore cannot be coming from this skin of mine.

    Those eyes, such an eerie color:
    mixed green and brown, and amber.
    I stare into their reflection,
    to see something, anything.
    All I see is a monster.
    That monster is me,
    but at the same time it is not.
    At least not the me I remember.
    Then again, since when is memory the defining factor?

    I don't know who I am
    (Secretly, I never did).
    Even my name sounds as if it belongs to someone else:
    It's not me,
    Yet it is.