I hold an impossible mirror above my head, just out of reach.

The audience can't see it, only me.
They clap and laugh and grin while I do my routine.

Meanwhile something hangs overhead.

So I'll do the dance, I'll put on the show, I'll do what they want.

But I scream within,
for mirror shards are no fickle sin.

"More! More!" they chant.

So I hold up the mirror instead.

But they know no difference.
For the mirror,
is what they've always been fed.

I wept for myself today. A younger me, that is.

For what I wish I could tell her. For what should have been.

I mourned for her years of pain and apathy and feelings of invalidation. For what should have been.

I would give her a big hug, for all the ones she didn't receive.

I would tell her to be brave, but to remember to cry too, for what should have been.

I would take her bra shopping and celebrate her womanhood, for what should have been.

I would tell her about my own pain and trauma. I would teach her what empathy is, for what should have been.

I would encourage her to be honest. I would be serious with her and teach her about grief and sadness, for what should have been.

I would tell her that it's not over. And that she is not who or what others think she is.

I would tell her to smash the impossible mirror she is holding up, for what should have been.

And I would hold her. So, so close. For what should have been.