Her

Most nights I find myself looking at the clock, just waiting for it to be late enough. Late enough so that I can swallow my pills and sleep. In the mornings I stare at the same clock. Waiting for it to reach the time when I can go to work. I work, come home and start the cycle over again. My mouth turns the frown into a smile at approriate moments, my hands choose the same brightly coloured clothes for me to wear everyday, I am going through the motions, going and going, keeping up the appearances so well that I want to belive in the illusion myself. I keep looking and finding places to hide from myself, things to drown myself in. Anything to keep me from facing what I feel, what I really am. She looks at me from the mirror, as I put on my make-up and my facade. She watches as I either binge-eat or starve myself, she sees as I hurt and punish my body in any and every way I can think of. She listens to my crying, hears my silent sobs of despair. She is ever present and yet so hard to find.