I believe in the things I can’t see. I guess that’s why I’m still breathing. I remember the things that once made me whole. Greeting my reflection in the depths of a bone white bathtub. Waiting for it to smile back and realizing that it never will unless I let it. My reflection is many things. It’s fearless and wide eyed and brave. It’s also sad because the world isn’t graceful. The world is everything my mother warned me about and even though it wore her out she still wore a smile for my sake. I think that’s the part of the story where the princess realized that she never needed saved and she became the fucking queen because she felt like it. I too feel many things. This skin is burning with revenge unto my own self and every time I let that fury die, I circle back and do it all over again. Let me burn like your favorite candle, except I like to start forest fires. I’m not a convenience or a luxury. I rip through the fucking thicket to make my mark and believe me when I say I will, because my will to burn is raging. I cleanse myself in holy water to absolve myself of this sticky act of truth. And when I do, the water might be muddy, but I’ll know that my reflection is somehow there because I believe in the things I can’t see.