It's the learned language of the abused, "Congratulations!
...you fooled them again, you fraud." after anything good.
How I can be sure the only thing close to commendable
is my illusionary juggling skills, keeping so many pieces
of utter shit I call "anything" from falling to full failure.
I am the things that lie to me the most, more than mirrors
and the way they hiss...hideous; more than happenstance;
even when I win I am positive I'm not worthy of Good
Things. I feel the need for caveat as much as confession,
I can never apologize for myself enough to be forgiven.
Here is to the wounded, here is to survivors, to those of us
weeping over broken mirrors, a finger's edge from falling.
Here is to the ugly ducklings, and swans of every possible
feather; flaws that blossom as sidewalk flowers, 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 message, you don't have to be alone.
To anyone who never before dared whisper "I am beautiful"
to reflections until they used a mirror they built themselves.