I wish I weren’t trapped in a bubble of self-hate,
stuck debating whether I’m evading or persuading myself
to be someone I ain’t.
I admire the girl I see through the glass
who’s going for it, not looking back
at all the shit she bit off before she could chew
the fact that she knew who she was all along.
What’s stronger than the power
behind her disguise are the lies
she told herself to compromise her demise
for the prize of being free, fleeing from the tree
with broken branches, entranced by second chances,
she glances at the reflection and sees a cosmic connection
of affection for what’s inside,
a pride of being alive and well,
with a pen and a paper
and a story to tell.