I met a mirror once,
dressed in light too bright to look at,
promising stillness where my storms were born.
I thought it was love,
but it was only my reflection, unfinished, unhealed, unlistened.
I learned hunger wears many faces.
It smiles when you take crumbs
and calls it devotion.
I stayed because the child in me still believed
emptiness could be filled
if I stayed quiet enough,
small enough,
soft enough to please.
But silence has teeth.
And each time I swallowed my truth,
it bit down harder.
When the mask slipped,
when perfection cracked,
I saw how much of me
was sculpted from fear, the porcelain of pretending, the ache of performance.
And I hated the actor until I forgave the audience.
Forgiveness is not a ribbon;
it is an excavation.
You dig until your hands bleed
through years that never saw you,
through voices that shaped you into fragments.
And beneath the ruin,
you find a pulse, unbroken, patient, waiting.
I do not hate you.
I see you, the pattern, the lesson, the echo.
You were the rewrite
of an ancient story
I no longer need to tell.
Now I no longer chase reflections.
I stand in the water,
and the ripples know my name.
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