Reflection

I peeled myself again last night

ten layers of skin shed on the floor

naked in a room of mirrors

that refused to lie.

The last one came off slow

like regret

or the last sliver of onion

that clings to the knife

once you're done slicing.

Underneath I wasn’t gold.

I wasn’t light.

I was just wet clay

with old fingerprints pressed in.

My mother’s voice was there,

stuck between my temples.

My lovers clung like bruises

to my arms and legs.

The silence had two rows of teeth.

I've almost given up

more times than I can count,

almost let the world carve me

into a cautionary tale,

a statistic.

But for a brief moment,

something ancient inside me

exhaled.

A voice I forgot was mine reminded me

that not everything broken bleeds

and rebirth can come

from flood or fire.

It reminded me that

sometimes you just need

a quiet place to fall apart

before continuing on.

So there I laid,

not healed, but becoming.

Not new, just true.

And the mirrors?

They blinked.

For the first time, they saw me

as I'd always seen them.