I watched it happen. I watched as the cracks spread through her body like heroin flowing through your bloodstream. It started at the tips of her toes and fingers. The same ones that texted him, “I want doughnuts” and then did the walk of shame from his car to her front door the next morning.
The cracks spread to her arms and thighs, the same ones that were tired from fighting herself and running in the wrong direction. I stood there and did nothing as they spread to her brain and whispered sweet nothings like, “You will never be loved” and “You are not enough”. Until finally, the cracks reached what was left of her tired and tattered heart, and it shattered into a million pieces. I was there. I saw it happen. She might as well have held the hammer herself.
Have you ever felt broken?
The kind of broken you can feel in your bones? The kind of broken the sun on your face nor the wind in your hair can fix? My “broken” cried in the car right before interviews, and found a nice comfy spot in the empty space next to me in bed. My broken spat at my reflection. It told me I was ugly, worthless, a fool, and that I would never be fixed. Did I mention that my broken also talked too fucking much?
My broken eventually shut up, but every now and then I can hear its muffled voice beckoning to be heard. I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t broken anymore, but how many people do you know can break and build and break and build despite how many times they’ve been broken before? A lot I hope.
The difference is back then I would step on my broken pieces to make them even smaller, and then sweep them under the rug – never to be seen, but there to cause pain if you decide to walk in the same spot again. Now, I marvel at them, shine them up anew and put them back where they belong only to be stronger than ever. You can’t ever be whole if you’re denying bits of yourself, so I took my broken pieces and made peace with them.
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