By John Thomas Tuft

Is there a part of me that I’m not proud of?

A part that I try to keep from being known?

Partitioned like the silver of a mirror

Always there but never shown.

Is it because it is hurtful?

Or does it make another feel small?

Some mirrors show distortions

A funhouse of sadness, a slow crawl.

If not for reflection, a mirror is of no use

If not for secrets, no love may last

If not for feelings, we lose our truth

If not for trust, fear’s die is cast.