Broken.
A term for something beyond repair.
Am I broken?
Or is this word only used when talking about chipped tea cups.
You could X-ray me and not find a single thing out of place.
You could look at my skin and see it as smooth as it was yesterday.
You can look under my bracelets and see some scars but not actually question them.
You could see my battle wounds and say that they’re cool when in reality they’re a painful reminder.
 
You could say that you know me, but in reality you’ve only been looking at my skin.
Youve seen the surface of me, the mask that needs fixing.
But if you would really look at me.
Look  past my hair and clothes.
Past my skin and bones, you’d see the opposite.
I’m not a fine piece of work.
 
My scars have too many Band-Aids just so I can forget them.
My tears are cold and ghostly because I don’t feel them anymore.
My life is falling in pieces as I wait for someone to notice.
To take a stand and ask.
But it won’t happen.
So I’ll just have to deal with my own confliction.
I have so many problems they can make a math book jealous.
But thats okay.
I may not be able to be fixed.
But I’m surviving just as I am.
I may not be happy, but that’s what happens when you’re like me.
Because honey
I’m crooked, and truly
Broken.

(2015)

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