It hurt. A lot.
But she kept scraping the glass. And peeling it off. It was broken.
There had to be something better underneath.
How many times has she done this before? Years and years have gone by.
Her fingers are bleeding, scabbed and raw. From picking. Everytime the result was worse. The glass kept shattering.
The pain grew more intense. Each time a piece of the glass broke off, she pressed it firmly into into each eye. They throbbed. She was nearly blind.
But the pain was familiar. Yes. This time would be different. This time the glass will be complete and beautiful and pure. No scratches. Not broken.
But until the glass was smooth and fixed she wouldn’t look. She would only look to remove. To destroy in order to fix.
Her hands trembled with effort. The glass was jagged, no relief. She needed to remove the piece.
The anxiety rose up in her body, choking her. It is not finished. Not perfect. Broken. I need to remove. She was addicted to the feeling. Even if shame swallowed her up quickly and her blood stained fingers were not easily hidden.
Just stop. The glass can be fixed. Stop removing the pieces.
Such a simple solution. She told herself to stop. They told her to stop. But when she stopped peeling, what she saw in the glass turned her stomach.
The mirror reflected a small girl. A broken girl. A sad girl. A girl who wanted a perfect reflection but kept picking. There was blood and pain. Regret.
She wanted to see something different. But in each piece of the shattered glass was a shattered girl who just wanted the pieces to come together again.