Vanity is a gilded cage,
each bar polished to a blinding sheen,
your reflection distorted in its golden grasp,
a prisoner of your own making.

It tells you, You are more,
while the world shrinks into a mirror,
and every face becomes an adversary,
every word a threat or flattery.

You preen, you pose, you hunger,
until the hunger gnaws you hollow,
for what is vanity but a feast of air,
a banquet where you starve alone?

And anger-oh, anger is the fire
that licks your bones clean of reason,
that turns your hands into fists,
your tongue into a blade.

It does not burn away the wrong;
it burns you, leaves you charred
and trembling in the aftermath,
ash in your mouth, regret in your chest.

Shatter the mirror.
Let the cracks show you
how light passes through
even the broken things.

Kneel by the river,
wash your face in its cold truth,
see yourself as water does,
without flattery, without fury.

When anger comes,
do not feed it your breath.
Hold it like a live coal
until it cools in your palm.

Breathe.
The world is wider
than your reflection,
deeper than your rage.

Step into the current.
Let go.
Be lighter.