Broken
Was there ever a moment when I wasn’t broken?
Do my fractures have an origin, or was I conceived shattered, destined to be in pieces before I took a breath?
I look back, try to retrace the movements that led me to where I am, and I cannot find a moment when these cracks didnt exist, no time when I was ever whole.
But does how it began matter, really?
My task is the same regardless - to try and take the shards of self and see if I can carefully work them back together.
And then maybe, just maybe, when I’m done I’ll be like a stained glass window - adding beauty to the light that shines through me.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s already happening now.
Wouldn’t that be the coolest thing?