The mirror
I'm standing before a mirror in a steamy room and clearing the fog from my reflection with the palm of my hand. I move over and over the surface but for every inch I uncover, the one before it clouds again. I move closer and closer, peering through the haze into the semblance beyond until the condensation thickens into beads and runs down the mirror. The image of self is finally clear. But it's not who I expected.

Balance for me it a bit like being caught in a tug-of-war. It's never, or rarely, gentle and close-to-center. It's far out to the edges, stretching me thin. It's bliss and agony. It's prohibition and admonition. Self acceptance and self-loathing. I tell myself I should because I edserve to and then feel guilty for taking too much and sharing nothing in return. When the rules change, that doesn't mean it's ok to break them.