Staring at the mirror,
I see my traits,
holding on to a bloody rope,
begging for a hand to rest,
then crawl and stand back up.
My words pile up like a broken glass,
piercing my throat every time,
when I desire to speak.
Stars, strength and balance,
oblivious to my way home.
As I, one day, lend my hand,
to my traits, their hands exhaled melody,
those words crawled through my throat,
climbing up till they find the grip of my tongue,
stars held along strength and balance,
following the throb of my heart,
till they reached home.
And from that day,
I refuse to accept,
a tragedy staring back.