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My name is [undefined]

My goal is to keep telling the story.

Below is who I was, now - I transform into something new and beautiful and terrible.

Cut and cracked, but not broken. Bloodied and beaten, but not defeated.

Stories have a way of getting out.

The others look on in fear and disgust.

They resent my transformation, my changing, my unmaking.

I only wish to share the beauty of it.

But all they see is viscera, destruction, I cannot make others see.

I can just tell the stories.

The bathroom light buzzes to life and I stare down my own reflection, a visage I do not recognize or connect with. My eyes are gaunt, and I grip the counter, my knuckles white. I raise my head up to stare down that face that haunts me. Then I pummel my fists into it, over and over and over again. Until my hands run red with blood. Until all that remains are fragments. A shattered self.

I arrange the fragments here for you to look upon. They may appear like stained glass, or maybe like knives in darkness, or perhaps you can see the whole. Can you see my blood stained across their sharp edges? Can you feel the parts of my soul I bare open for you to see here?

I see the world though my shattered kaleidoscope lens, and yet still the color reaches me. There is still beauty to be found. Admire and cherish it. The detail in existence. The fidelity of it. Soak in the sunlight and air of spring, the pitter patter of rain at night, the smell of earth and things that grow, the sound of people, the smell of distant cooking, the rustle of wind on autumn nights, the vast expanse above, filled with stars and wonders unimagined.

There is always something to love.