Broken Mirrors

I wrote the words in white paint, proudly as I could have written them. I wrote those words for him, when he was gone before. Now he is gone again. They shout at me.

“DON’T BELIEVE IN BROKEN MIRRORS.”

But here I am. I look at the shards of my personality, my identity, and I believe the sharpness of every edge, every crack, every speck of dust on the glass.

Is this what it feels like to stand at the edge of some, but not The, grand canyon, prepared to jump? To jump off the rails is such an easy thing, its realigning the wheels with those rails that’s so hard. May as well find a whole new track.

They tell us who we are, what we’re worth. And we always believe them. But they leave out the filling of those cracks we see so clearly with “but”s and “and”s and “if”s. 

“He’s an addict, but he’s so caring,” and “She may be a failure, but she tries her hardest,” are nowhere to be heard, save for my having typed them just now. 

And so those cracks go unfilled until, after much slow breaking apart, we shatter.

I may only be a not-so-super nova, bits of glass exploding through the universe, but I’m here to be straight with you.

No matter how bad they tell you you are, how stupid, how selfish, how useless, I promise you this: they lied to you.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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