The Mirror Finally Agreed

Steam on the glass, a thumbprint wiped clean, the quietest room I have ever been seen. I practiced a face for the hallway, a smoother one for the dinner crowd. Folded myself like the good towels, neat enough to not stand out loud. But this morning the water ran cold and I caught my own eyes in the haze — and the version I built for the others just couldn't hold up to my gaze. So I said the true thing to the steam, no one to convince but me — and the mirror finally agreed. No flinch, no looking away. The fist I'd been holding for years just opened up today. I'm the one I was hiding from — the mirror finally agreed. I won't rehearse my own name anymore, won't shrink to the size of the frame. The toothbrush, the same chipped tile floor, but the face in the glass isn't shame. I don't need a crowd to confirm it, don't need the whole world to applaud — the smallest room held the biggest yes, just me, the steam, and God. So I said the true thing to the steam, no one to convince but me — and the mirror finally agreed. No flinch, no looking away. The fist I'd been holding for years just opened up today. I'm the one I was hiding from — the mirror finally agreed. Somewhere there's a kid version of me who'd have given anything to hear: you don't have to wait for permission, you don't have to wait for the year. The door was never locked, my love — I just had to stand right here. And the mirror finally agreed. No flinch, no looking away. The fist I'd been holding for years just opened up today. I'm the one I was hiding from — the mirror finally agreed. Steam on the glass, a thumbprint wiped clean. The quietest room. And I'm finally seen.