Sometimes when I look into the mirror, I don’t have to stare at my reflection for very long before I see a stranger staring right back at me.
Who is this person that I have become?
What is under that skin?
Is there magic under those scars?
I see just eternal pain and memories worse than nightmares wrapped neatly around the bones and knit cleverly with skin.
I look at my hand and I realize I no longer know the person who owns them.
I don’t remember the things they have done to keep the stranger in the mirror from falling apart.
I have made promises to the people I love that I am unsure this stranger might keep.
I have smiled effortlessly while the stranger was crying her lungs out inside me.
I have spoken words to pull a loved one out of sadness; while my stranger sat in the deepest darkest abyss.
I have believed that I am truly happy; while I ignored my stranger’s plea for help.
I have let her suffer in silence by not acknowledging her existence.
I have wanted her gone.
I have loathed her in moments I was supposed to be there for her and love her unconditionally.
Do I owe this stranger something?
Do I owe it to her to let her stop existing?
Should I let her escape? Life itself. And be free of pain and the constant fear of abandonment.
This stranger. She’s not cut out for this world.
She’s too broken to be mended without enough love.
She’s too delicate to fly alone.
Her wings are too soft, too fragile for the North winds.
Her feet too unsteady to walk alone by the roaring sea.
And her hands.
They were lifeless, pale and without purpose.
When I told her that these hands have once held something beautiful, have once embraced someone she loved deeply, have once been kissed fondly, have once entwined with another and fit perfectly; her unbelieving eyes stared back at me like fiery coals.
All I wanted to do is wrap the love being offered to me and feel safer than ever; but my stranger, she believes she’s gonna be a mess forever.
