We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.  ~ W. B. Yeats

This mirror is no help at all,
such a sludge of regret.

I used to think I was either divine
or pointless, cringed at the
occasional glimpse of ordinary,
that hint of sameness
lurking in the corner of my reflection.

This, God’s apple, was punishment enough
for the transgression of being.

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