The broken mirror stares at me accusingly.
If I close my eyes,
I can see the shards of glass
flying and breaking on the cold ground.
The pieces of glass are scattered—
Scattered pieces of a harsh reality.
I pick the pieces up,
and as they cut my fingers,
I look at the broken mirror,
trying to compare the shape of the glass in my hand
to the missing gaps in the mirror.
I reunite the broken pieces
and bandage my bleeding fingers
and wipe the blood away from the mended glass.
I can still see the cracks,
and my reflection is temporarily disfigured,
but I am determined to find a way to survive.
My reflection is still whole.
A past can't be changed,
but the way I look at it can.
A past can be flawed,
but my spirit—one that reconciles the past and present—
My hope is unbroken and flawless.
The mirror is still broken,
but my reflection can become unbreakable
as time passes by
and as hope gives me strength.