your life is something to be proud of.

(think of the soft trail left by a drying tear.)

shower running in the next room, imagine the steam,

it hangs in the air, suspends you in amniotic warmth.

you stare at your blurry, flesh-colored shape in the foggy mirror

and begin to write with your index finger, but then you stop

and decide instead to draw a shape that”s never been drawn before

and that never will be again.

it will evaporate and somehow transcend,

in the same way that you, too,

will one day evaporate

and somehow transcend.

to exist in alignment,

be who you’re meant to be.

is that not the only dream?

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