on going in circles, change without really changing.

the more
things change, the more
things stay the same. when I place

my palm
against the mirror, I note 
the space between my hand and its image.

I wipe
the fog away, but I still see
through a broken kaleidoscope, through a filter

which turns
the world to shades of grey,
to something I perceive, but never touch.

my therapist
has no answers. all I’ve gained
from shedding skins for twenty-one years,

from desperate
prayers for transformation,
is the ability to loathe myself.

if change
is a river, I am a vortex, spiraling.
I inhale and hold it. the breath stagnates. 

all roads
lead here— to this unfamiliar
reflection, to the desire to shatter it.

if wholeness
is out of reach, at least
being in pieces would be something different.