Parts once pressured under (or polished over) now boil to the surface. Not a foundation nor a filling fit for public consumption, but now they are steaming up the mirror. I cannot see through the fog. I no longer recognize the inside out girl in front of me.
The damage. The determination. The humor and the tears. The successes and the shortcomings. The memories. The reality. The imperfections and the honesty. The realization, gratefulness and anger. The incongruity and the lessons.
I am stumbling through this flea market where mine are not the only blemished goods for sale. It is a private gallery of low budget restorations. I pick the pieces up, and hold them to my body. I try them on for size. Why doesn't anything fit together anymore?