It's the back-of-the-head voice that says, "Congratulations!
...you fooled them again, you fraud." after anything good.
The surety that the only thing close to commendable
is our illusionary juggling skills, keeping so many pieces
of utter shit we call "anything" from falling to full failure.
We are the things that lie to us most, more than mirrors
and the way they hiss...hideous; more than happenstance;
even when we win we are sure we are not worthy of Good.
Things. We feel the need for caveat as much as confession,
but we can never apologize for ourselves enough.
Here is to the wounded, here is to survivors, to those
weeping over broken mirrors, a finger's edge from falling.
Here is to the ugly ducklings, and swans of every possible
color; to flaws that blossom from mirror shards, and weeds
that are amazing for the way they feed us medicinal
gifts. Here is to the lonely, may you be met. To the broken,
may you see through that illusion. To the isolated, you live
in a time of instant communication, you don't have to be alone.
To those who never before dared whisper "I am beautiful"
to their reflections 'til they used a mirror they built themselves