Broken Reflection
Disgusted at me, the figure’s countenance
contorts into a grimace.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Their lips move as mine do—so she’s mocking me now, huh?
Silence.
Frustrated at the girl’s stubbornness to answer the question,
my fingers curl in towards my palm.
As my fist slices through the air toward her face,
it encounters a sheet of glass.
It shatters at my blow.
I look down at the shards of the mirror on the floor,
like gazing into a crystal pool of water
that’s no deeper than mean people’s minds,
and I see fragments of my reflection
in the mess of shattered glass.
But I smile;
I look more beautiful broken.
—Mar. 31, 2010
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