I saw a woman in a broken mirror—
She seemed peculiar, distant, strange.
I instantly remembered I can’t forget her;
She cut all forgiveness out of range.

Curiously, I gazed at sharp glass edges,
Wondered and pondered about how and why.
And all of a sudden, my reality stretches—
I realized why I could never try.

The woman in the mirror wasn’t whole,
A broken image—impossible to puzzle.
Dire darkness her childhood stole,
So she, herself, learned to hustle.

The longer I stood staring at the glass,
I saw a different image emerge.
And even as broken as she was,
I had to stay—and try to converse.

Was it in my best interest or was it hers?
Either way, I couldn’t turn away.
I saw her cry, so I dried her tears,
With perfect and raw dismay.

I tried to back off to better see—
To my frustration and disbelief—
I had to face it: the woman in the mirror and me
Are one—not two—broken easily.

So I picked up the pieces one by one
And tried to put them back together,
Facing a lifetime of what I had done,
Healing—and learning to forgive her.

Now the mirror is almost whole,
And the woman isn’t crying.
We reclaimed what the past had stole—
With urge to live instead of dying.