Sometimes I see myself in the mirror as one would see a single celled organism under a microscope. Interesting, but small, and with very few defining features. Disappearing in the vast emptiness that is the universe and losing myself in it. I enjoy this sense of emptiness, enveloping me, draining away all that I feel. It's like an ice bath, removing the color from my cheeks and bringing me closer to the paleness of death, but not grey enough to be dead long. I am such a pretty corpse.
Sometimes I see myself in the mirror as a growing tree, my roots firmly planted in the ground, stretching my foliage up, up, into the sky to reach for things I should not be able to attain. I bear fruit for others to nourish their bodies, so they, too, will be able to reach the heights I can. I turn my leaves towards the sun, letting her color me vibrantly. I bask and I know exactly who and what I am, I know where I am going, I know I am strong.
Sometimes I see myself as a flame, dancing on the roots that held me grounded. When they release me from the earth, I shoot across the breeze and burn everything in my path. My friends and family reach out, to try to slow me down, but they burn themselves badly and recoil into their own spaces. I am alone, but my will to move too quickly outburns the will to realize the pain and destruction I'm leaving behind. I am beautiful, but I am singular.
Sometimes I see myself as a cloud, heavy with rainwater. I pass over dry lands and let myself fall upon them, quenching the thirst of a thousand drought years. I caress the hard dirt and sink into it, letting myself pool around rocks, and draining into the crevices until I become one with the ground I fell on. And then the sun beats upon me, and lifts me back up, and I am scattered into a million pieces within the sky. I am insignificant.
Sometimes I see myself as a white rose, symbolic of purity and innocence, but sown from the soil of doubt and despair. I hold within me the poison of the black dirt I came from, yet lovers pass me back and forth, promising forever. I shrivel up and die, long forgotten in a dry vase, on a kitchen table used only for piling junk mail. My petals litter the surface, and a passerby might toss me away. I will find the earth again.
Sometimes I see myself. But am I really myself? Who have I become in this whirlwind of people, places, and things? Who have I become, with war waging in my mind, different sides all righteous in their own ways. I am me. Aren't I?