In the dark of the moon.

She picks up the shards and arranges them on the table. The edges are jagged and cut her fingers. Tears and tiny droplets of blood pool together, almost repelling each other like oil, mimicking the thoughts that flood her mind. The angel and demon, as they tussle. Insults are hurled but neutralised with love; love is cascaded but torn apart by pain.

She tries to rearrange the puzzle so that the mirror is pieced back together, yet she can’t quite get it to work. The lines aren’t straight and can’t be melded. Her reflection is therefore crude and disjointed. Anger and frustration build as she realises the mirror can’t be fixed. It needs to be given up. Cast aside. Let go of. She will have to let go of the old. As she pushes the blood, the salt, the wetness, the smeared pieces of glass into the bin, she screams. A guttural, feral sound. In answer to her warrior that resides within, the wind outside picks up. Birds bury their heads under their wings and foxes skulk into the shadows.

Time passes. The sky is dark outside. Rain falls. Exhausted and spent, she raises her head from her arms and catches sight of her face in the reflection of the window. Tears have dried. Her lips full and swollen, her eyes tired. But her face is no longer sectioned off into anger and recrimination. It is one. It is as smooth as the glass of the window. It’s ok now. And as the new moon rises, so her seeds have intention have been sown. No more fury. No more anger, no more self sabotage. As the moon rises, so will she.

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