Metaphor for the Pretty Girls Who Think They're Ugly

The apple hangs, in the shade of trees,
it's rotten and yet so beautiful.
The wind, it kisses
and sings to the dead on meaningless nights,
she's nothing but what she'll never be.

The apple falls, close to the tree,
lying lonely and stepped on by everyone.
The skin, fades to black,
with white scars bleeding bitter tears;
she's losing herself, but is still so beautiful.

The apple rolls, away from the tree,
slipping from, the grasp of everything.
She whispers and, I feel the dull metal sorrow,
it stings my veins, and makes me fall asleep,
she won't wake up, but lies there so beautifully.

The apple rests, in ecstasy,
a river of hatred, and sickened childhood.
Homicide, of the sun, she runs away too soon,
suicide, of a girl, who resembles the moon
and ashes of her innocence form a circle of no hope.

The tree it, withers and slips from reality,
in these burnt pages she feels invisible.
Tastes the blood, upon her fingers,
and mourns the loss, of a dream come true;
a dying fragment of a real girl,
ripping her hair out,
raking her face off,
crying her soul out,
but she's still so beautiful ...

.... to the mirror?