Beauty/Beast

A short poem, up for interpretation, but mostly falling in the category of depression and fighting one's demons.

The path in front of me consists of vines and leaves of green. 

The crunch of the wintry fall gives me visions of the beasts I have not yet seen.

The long silver dagger presses it's face into my warm thigh.

It protects me from the monsters that will surely lie.

As my feet carry my body further ahead,

I spy the evil, sleeping vulnerable in a bed.

From my distance I cannot make out a face,

so I reach for my dagger and quicken my pace.

My hands generate pools of sweat around the slippery knife,

I grip the blade harder, preparing to sacrifice my life.

But as I inch closer to the creature of all creatures,

I begin to make out, familiar features. 

Sitting on the bed now with eyes that mimicked the final autumn leaves,

was a frightened girl, with a biting nail among pet peeves.

As I looked at this girl, I cried and cried until I could not see.

The beast in the woods had always been me.

On the bed was a clean cracked mirror,

and in my eyes was the face of fear.

All this time I've been fighting this fight,

I hadn't realized,

It had been I, who was lurking in the night.