Behind the Smile

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Sometimes I look in the mirror and can't
recognize myself.
I think:
Who is that woman?
Why is she so sad?
Years and years of being told she's not good enough,
yoyo dieting,
and severe depression have gotten her here.
Trapped,
in her own body.
The pounds keep on mysteriously appearing,
wrinkles near her eyes,
sleepless nights.
She's only 25.
Her youth stolen by people who
don't even realize they'd stolen it.
They took it from her,
with their cruel words and lack
of love.
She's fending for herself now,
and she's failing.
She wishes she could curl up in a ball
and just disappear.
Lights out.
No one would know.
Months would pass.
No one would know.
Eventually the landlord would show up
looking for his rent.
He'd find her and say,
"Looks like we got another one."
Cut his losses, and call it in.
No funeral.
Who could afford that?
A plaque is made in her honor.
Sister, daughter.
Died too soon.
Who was she?
Not anybody important.
Alone.
Oh! She had a cat!
"Really cute. I need to find a home for it, do you know anybody who might be interested?"
Gone.
She's gone.
Becoming a distant memory.
A few tears would be shed,
and then they'd remember:
Well, we didn't really know her in life,
so what's the point in crying for her death?
And the world would continue turning.
And the lives would continue on.
And the landlord would find a new tenant.
What was she,
but a whisper in the wind?
Sometimes I look in the mirror and can't recognize myself.
I think:
Who is the woman?
And why is she so sad?