Fragments of Self

In the glass of a window, I catch a new glance,

a stranger’s reflection steals me from my stance.

With an eye made of crystal, she stares through the light,

her confidence bright as she steps into sight.

Old friends speak of beauty that’s hidden from view,

and I ponder the stories that might not be true.

What parts do we wear like a badge of the brave,

our fragments of self in the images we save?