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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.