I am a newborn foal, clumsy, unaware, and innocent, depending on everyone else for survival.
I am not the bestselling novel that everyone rushes to buy, enticing the asinine crowds with my alluring cover.
I am the undeveloped manuscript that a potential publisher rejects easily due to the truthfully blunt content.
I am not the clear vision seeing true beauty in a mirror, the supportive friends and family, or the never-ending love that people deserve.
I am the clouded vision seeing a monster in a puddle, the finger and the razor and the drugs helping ease the pain, and the eternal fear and regret harbored in the mind.
I was millions of horrible aspects smashed into one, painful memories flowing forever, perpetual darkness crowding every nook and cranny.
I will be a bright light as lustrous as the stars, a joy spread as far as the eye can see, a broken bottle pieced together painstakingly.
I will be healed.