There’s a mirror in this country
cracked from coast to coast,
And every reflection feels tired
like we’re all squinting,
trying to recognise ourselves
in a place that keeps changing its face.

Every time someone looks into it,
they point out a different crack, a different group,
a different “enemy”
Like blame is easier to hold
than responsibility.

The cracks look like borders,
like red and blue veins
splitting one body in half,
arguing about which half is the heart
And which one is the problem?

Sometimes, when the mirror catches the morning light
At the right angle 
There are moments when the country actually feels
like something whole,
something hopeful.
And in that tiny sliver of brightness,
You can almost see unity.
Almost.

But daylight moves fast here,
And the shadows return quicker than we expect.
People walk past the mirror
like it’s just decoration,
too afraid of what they might find
staring back at them.
Because what if the real issue
Isn't the cracks at all
But the people holding the mirror?

No one wants to fix something
That might expose them,
that might show the truth,
in the places we’ve been avoiding.

So the mirror stays broken.
And we keep arguing over fragments,
forgetting that even shattered glass
can still hold a whole reflection
If someone brave enough tries
to piece it back together 

KYRA JOHNSON