No one told me that it wouldn’t be easy.
 
That I would have to sort and feel my way through life, like a blind person seeking light through eyes that appeared to others as empty.
 
That I would have to experience things for myself, by myself.
 
Through looking at myself in the mirror, I could no longer hide my secrets that screamed back at me.
 
My reflection told a story of deep hurt that lied surrounded in a pool full of insecurities.
 
From the corners of the mirror, oozed out my many imperfections.
 
There I stood exposed, naked, like a newborn fresh out of its mother’s womb. Lost, with no sense of direction.
 
The mirror began to crack and I was forced to figure out how to put the pieces back together again.
 
Failed attempts at putting the pieces back together, I began to question whether I was going insane because with each failed attempt I’d managed to cut myself but, with open arms, I welcomed the pain.
 
Pain was something that had become familiar to me.
 
It was a comforter, a security blanket like the seeds are to the roots and the roots are to the tree.
 
I looked myself in the eyes and I was ashamed at what I saw.
 
I saw someone who didn’t know how to admire the beauty in her flaws.