I stare into the mirror
and three faces stare back.
One I used to be:
scarred, silent,
a shadow trudging behind
its own trembling steps.
It whispers promises
of safety in surrender,
and I almost believe it.
One I am:
bruised, aware,
fighting each moment
for air, for space, for breath.
It bears the weight
of every wound,
every chain
I could not break.
It is the battlefield
and the soldier,
all at once.
One I want to become:
a light forged from fire,
a voice unchained,
a body that carries hope
without fear of collapse.
It is a dream
that pierces like a knife,
sharp with desire,
terrifying in its clarity.
The three of us clash
in quiet rooms,
in sleepless nights,
in fleeting reflections
that do not recognize me.
I swing at who I used to be
but its ghosts linger
in every hesitation.
I drag my present
through trenches of doubt,
through crumbling walls
built by my own hands.
I reach for the future
and it slips,
a phantom in the fog,
always beyond reach.
I bleed in three directions at once:
the sorrow of the past,
the chaos of now,
the hunger for what has yet to rise.
And still
I fight.
Because if I stop,
the war devours me.
If I falter,
the shadow of who I was
and the fear of who I might be
will swallow every spark
I’ve dared to keep alive.
I am the battlefield,
the soldier,
the fire,
and the flicker of hope
that refuses to die.
Even in darkness,
I fight
for the self I am,
for the self I will be,
for the self I have always longed to become.
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 4:42 PM UTC
I stare into the mirror
and three faces stare back.
One I used to be:
scarred, silent,
a shadow trudging behind
its own trembling steps.
It whispers promises
of safety in surrender,
and I almost believe it.
One I am:
bruised, aware,
fighting each moment
for air, for space, for breath.
It bears the weight
of every wound,
every chain
I could not break.
It is the battlefield
and the soldier,
all at once.
One I want to become:
a light forged from fire,
a voice unchained,
a body that carries hope
without fear of collapse.
It is a dream
that pierces like a knife,
sharp with desire,
terrifying in its clarity.
The three of us clash
in quiet rooms,
in sleepless nights,
in fleeting reflections
that do not recognize me.
I swing at who I used to be
but its ghosts linger
in every hesitation.
I drag my present
through trenches of doubt,
through crumbling walls
built by my own hands.
I reach for the future
and it slips,
a phantom in the fog,
always beyond reach.
I bleed in three directions at once:
the sorrow of the past,
the chaos of now,
the hunger for what has yet to rise.
And still
I fight.
Because if I stop,
the war devours me.
If I falter,
the shadow of who I was
and the fear of who I might be
will swallow every spark
I’ve dared to keep alive.
I am the battlefield,
the soldier,
the fire,
and the flicker of hope
that refuses to die.
Even in darkness,
I fight
for the self I am,
for the self I will be,
for the self I have always longed to become.