December 23, 2017The Mirrored Image of Me
I had been looking into a mirror
propped against the wall
and nestled into one of my bed cushions.
The mirror cracked,
sent shards of silver spraying
across my velvet pillow
which engulfed the bits
in a soft royal blue sea.
I will miss the mirror.
It was something tangible in which to believe,
something to hold in my hands.
If I were brave, I would admit fear of the reflection,
that it broke itself
before the glass shattered.
If I could bear the glass under my skin,
I would shine.
from #18 - Winter 2002