I lied about the class - it was tits.

Staring into the shattered mirror, I see the fragments of my life. Some pieces are more complete and show a clear reflection, while others are dark shards that cut deep if you try to handle them. Let go of some pain. Pain I never wanted to acknowledge but always knew was there. Why pain? Because no one ever wants to let go of their most loved moments. Letting go, catharsis is the word, releases emotions as simply as the pen flicks across the page. Letting go of this idea that somehow I was inferior, never up to some drunkenly imagined standard that was soon forgot is a whisky haze. The release is mostly healthy, but it incites anger as deep as the mostly ignored pain. The kind of anger that makes burn marks in my mind thus not ever allowing me to let go of it completely. It deepens the marks a reminder of how I would never choose to be. Peering into the pieces, some peer back, these notions of destruction bent on forcing me to confront them, culprits long dead and few caring ears ensure that this will be a story of internal conflict and implied violence.