It shames me to realize all the wispy pieces of me that have fallen off. The gold bands and black creme smudged around the eyes. It all disintegrates. The one in the mirror. The only one. To write for me, for my subconscious to be released. This undoing of self, despite the hesitation. And not for another, or a legacy. For a love of self. Love strong as an armor, a shield, a barrier. Whatever keeps them out.