I'm standing very still, in a room of vindictive and broken mirrors and they shiver, fracturing reflections every time I breathe. So I am quiet, and whisper to my heart to slow its beating, to keep the angry glass from shifting it's attention to me. If I cannot go forward and cannot stay back how do I fix the brokenness? How can I satisfy the maddened creatures who demand my blood but whose thirst is never slaked? I call softly, scar to scar, wondering if there are any other rooms nearby, where someone else stands scared and quiet, with a slow beating heart, and open wounds that cannot be called defensive if you don't know what you are defending.